


Gone with the Gods

by Proud Rose (The_Author)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dubious Consent, Fantastic Racism, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, One-Sided Attraction, Rewrite, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 79,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Author/pseuds/Proud%20Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Pavus is the spoiled, ambitious son of a wealthy Magister, who runs away from home just as the Venatori take control of Tevinter politics. While Dorian struggles to survive in this ever-changing society and his uncertain role in it, he finds himself unwillingly attracted to a Qunari mercenary. - A rewrite of Margaret Mitchell's <i>Gone with the Wind</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dorian Pavus was the spitting image of his father, not that he would ever willingly admit to it. In his face were his father's sharp cheekbones and high brow, and his eyes were a dark grey without a touch of blue, outlined in kohl. Above them, his black brows slanted upward, cutting a startling oblique line in his rich brown skin-- common in the hot northern lands of Tevinter.

Seated with Flora and Fortuna Sallustius in the cool shade of the peristyle of his father's villa, he made a pretty picture. The left sleeve of his robes was cut high, exposing his shoulder and a hint of chest. Had his father been there he would have no doubt made him change into something more suitable. While no one in Minrathous would bat an eye at his choice in clothing, such a look was far too daring and avant-garde for the country. His choice in attire only belied his reputation. The grey eyes in his carefully made-up face were turbulent, willful, and lusty with life; a lure that many of his young peers had found themselves caught on.

On either side of him, the twins lounged easily against the stone steps, squinting at the sunlight as they laughed and talked. Twenty-two years old, long and lean, with sunburned faces and dark chestnut hair, their eyes were merry and arrogant, and their bodies clothed in identical pink summer dresses, they were as much alike as a pair of wisps. The girls were healthy, high-spirited, and as thoughtless as young animals. Although born to the ease of villa life, waited on hand and foot since infancy, their faces were neither slack or soft. They had the vigor and alertness of country people who have spent all their lives in the open and troubled their heads very little with dull things found in books. Life in the Valarian Fields was a little crude. The more sedate and settled cities looked down on their low-country brethren, who seemed to care for nothing but riding well, dancing lightly, and holding one's liquor like a lady. In these accomplishments the twins excelled, and they were equally outstanding in their notorious inability to learn anything contained between the covers of books. Their family had more money, more horses, more slaves than anyone else in the Fields, but the girls had less grammar than most of their poor Soporati neighbors.

Dorian, in contrast, was city-borne through and through. His manners -- instilled in him by his father's none-too-gentle admonitions -- were impeccable and his love of literature was only surpassed by his love for fine conversation and finer wine. Yet, Dorian had found himself dragged rather unceremoniously to his father's country estate after abandoning his apprenticeship to Gereon Alexius. Dorian had squandered much of his youth as year after year he was expelled from each new Circle. No one had wanted to take him on as their apprentice, at least not until Alexius offered himself as Dorian's mentor. Under Alexius's tutelage, Dorian excelled. He helped cultivate ground-breaking theories, published papers outlining the possibility of time travel, and quickly cemented himself as a rising star amongst the Tevinter elite. His father had been pleased with his progress, believing that Dorian had finally settled and found his place in the world. So it was to his great disappointment when Dorian suddenly turned up at his childhood home in Qarinus without explanation, except to say that he would not be returning to Alexius. There were rumors that he had a falling out with his mentor. No one was quite sure what had happened between the two, but Halward's displeasure at his son's behavior was all anyone could talk about. They had left the city soon after and arrived in the Valarian Fields for a "holiday", as Halward termed it. Flora and Fortuna, who had not willingly opened a book since leaving the Circle of Magi a year before, thought it a fine joke.

"I don't know why your father's so sore about you leaving Alexius," Flora commented carelessly. "You would have had to come home before the year was out anyway."

Dorian looked down at the girl, thoroughly bemused by her matter-of-fact speech. "Why?"

"The war, dummy! It's going to start any day now! Who could stay cooped up in a musty old library when there's a war on?"

"You know there isn't going to be any war," said Dorian, bored. "It's all just talk. Do you know how many of these old god cults have emerged since the fall of the Imperium? Fifty-seven. Now, how many of those have ever succeeded in starting a war? Zero. The Venatori are the same. They have no leader, no resources, and hardly any manpower."

"Not going to be any war!" cried the twins indignantly, as though they had been defrauded.

"Why, of course there's going to be a war," Fortuna insisted. "The Southerners are in a state of chaos. Their mages have finally thrown off their shackles! This might be our only chance. Without a war-"

Dorian couldn't keep from rolling his eyes. "I have never gotten so tired of any one word in my life as 'war'. I'm so bored. It's all anyone ever talks about. I haven't enjoyed myself at any of the parties this spring because of it. If you say 'war' one more time I will go inside."

Dorian meant what he said, for this was one subject that he could do with never hearing again, even if he had not been completely truthful about the reasons he had given. But he smiled when he spoke, consciously deepening his dimple and tilting his head in such a way that it showed off his beauty mark. The girls were enchanted, as he had intended them to be, and hastened to change the conversation to one more palatable to their friend: Magister Carloman's ball.

"I hope it doesn't rain tomorrow," Dorian remarked. "it's rained nearly every day for a week. There's nothing worse than a garden party turned indoor picnic."

"Oh, it'll be clear tomorrow and hot as Matrinalis. Look at that sunset. I never saw one redder. You can always tell weather by sunsets."

They looked out across the courtyard of Halward's grand villa toward the red horizon. The trees were all in blossom and the air was heady with the scent of citrus. The heat crept into Dorian's bones, making him lazy and stupid with warmth. He was content to watch the slaves crawl around the garden, pulling out weeds with their bare hands. Outdoor garden parties were all the rage this season and his mother demanded that the courtyard be filled with every flower imaginable.

"Look, I know I promised to give all my dances to Damon, but there's no reason why I shouldn't also get a waltz or two with you," said Flora.

"Well, I don't know. It doesn't seem right stealing you from another man," Dorian teased back.

"But you've got to give me the first waltz and Fortuna the last one and you've got to eat supper with us. We'll sit on the stair landing like we did when we were kids."

"And what about all the other girls I promised to sit with?"

"Ha! Like you could find any better than us!" Fortuna mocked.

Flora leaned forward, a sly smile gracing her pretty face. "If you promise, we'll tell you a secret," she said.

"What?" asked Dorian, alert as a child at the word.

"Well, when we were in town yesterday picking up our new dresses from the seamstress, we happened to spot Felix Alexius riding through the thoroughfare. He's the son of your mentor, isn't he? Well, _former_ mentor."

Dorian's face did not change but his lips went white, like a person who had received a stunning blow without warning and who, in the first moments of shock, did not realize what had happened. So still was his face as he stared at Flora that she, never analytic, took it for granted that he was merely surprised and very interested.

"I heard that he had stayed the night at his cousin's and that he'll be at Magister Carloman's ball tomorrow, though I couldn't begin to imagine _why_. Isn't it dangerous for him to be out in public because of, you know..." Here, Flora looked about conspiratorially, as though anyone was interested in what they had to say. "His Blight sickness?"

"Felix isn't contagious," Dorian snapped, though his tone went ignored.

"Now, Dorian, we've told you the secret, so you've got to promise to eat supper with us."

"Of course I will."

"And all the waltzes?"

"All."

The twins looked at each other jubilantly but with some surprise. They knew Dorian was arranged to marry Livia Herathinos -- and had been since they were both in the cradle -- but they thought if he had been a free man then Dorian would have undoubtedly chosen one of them to marry. He had practically promised them the whole of tomorrow-- seats by him at the banquet and all the waltzes. And they'd see to it that the dances were all waltzes!

Filled with new enthusiasm by their success, they lingered on into the early evening, talking about the banquet and the ball and Felix Alexius, interrupting each other, making jokes and laughing, hinting broadly for invitations to supper. Some time had passed before they realized that Dorian had very little to say. The atmosphere had somehow changed. Just now, the twins did not know, but the fine glow had gone out of the afternoon. Dorian seemed to be paying little attention to what they said, although he made the correct answers. Sensing something they could not understand, baffled and annoyed by it, the twins struggled along for a while and then rose reluctantly, the sun already sunk low in the sky.

They called to their manservant and told him to hitch their horses, before turning back to give one last goodbye to their friend, but Dorian had already gone inside without so much as a backward glance.

When the twins were gone, Dorian let slip the strained smile that he had fixed upon his face and collapsed into a chair like a sleepwalker. He leaned back wearily, his heart swelling up with misery until it felt too large for his chest. A feeling of disaster oppressed him.

Felix was coming here! The twins were mistaken. They were playing one of their jokes on him. Alexius wouldn't let Felix out of his sight. His constitution was too poor. It was dangerous for him to travel all the way from Minrathous to the Valarian Fields on his own. It was too ridiculous to even consider it.

Dorian heard Cyrion's soft tread coming up beside him and he hastily righted himself and tried to rearrange his face in more placid lines. It would never do for Cyrion to suspect that anything was wrong. Otherwise, word would undoubtedly get back to his father and that was one conversation Dorian did not want to have. He would be forced to reveal everything, or think up some plausible lie. Cyrion emerged from the hall, an elvish slave with the bowed and weary countenance of an old man. He had quickly become the mainstay of the Pavus household since Halward bought him some ten years ago. Despite being an elf and a Fereldan barbarian, Cyrion's genteel manner was as cultured as those of his owners. The elf officially served as Halward's valet, but more often his father had him chasing after Dorian like a beleaguered nanny. If Cyrion thought something wrong he would scent it out like a mabari hound.

"Are the young ladies not staying for supper? I already told Korina to set two extra plates for them."

"Oh, I was so tired of hearing them talk about the Venatori that I couldn't have endured it through supper. Besides, what would my dear fiancée think if she found out that I was entertaining two women while out in the Fields?" Dorian grinned cheekily up at him.

Cyrion looked summarily unimpressed. "I am sure no one in Minrathous would think your virtue was in any danger while in _their_ company."

Well, he certainly had a sly mouth for an old man. Dorian stood up, making sure to keep his face turned away with a studied air nonchalance. He brushed off nonexistent dust from his clothes and sniffed. "I think I'll take a walk before supper. Father should be back from town any minute now."

His father would know whether this rumor was true.

Cyrion opened his mouth to reply, but Dorian was already going down the steps and back out onto the peristyle. He crossed the courtyard and exited through the gate, picking up his long cream-colored robes as he hurried down the driveway. The lemon trees on either side of the cobbled drive had been knotted together to create an arch overhead, turning the long avenue into a dim tunnel. As soon as he was beneath their gnarled arms, he knew he was safe from Cyrion's sharp gaze and he slowed his swift pace. He eventually came to the end of the drive and sat down on a stump to wait for his father. It was past time for him to come home, but he was glad that he was late. The delay would give him time to calm his face so that Halward's suspicions would not be aroused. He looked out across the fields and plains, now cast in a blood-red light as the sun was swallowed by the earth.

It had been cruel of him to leave so suddenly without saying goodbye to Felix, but his friend would have demanded an explanation and what could Dorian have told him? "I'm sorry, I know you love your father, but I can no longer work for him. He's crazy and wants to join an evil old god cult." How could he tell him that? Felix was his best -- his only -- friend. Alexius may have his faults, but he cared for his son. Felix was the only thing that kept him anchored to this world after the death of his wife. There was nothing he wouldn't do for him, including, apparently, turning to heathen gods and forbidden magic for help. It was tragic. Alexius was brilliant. He had wanted to change Tevinter. But now...

Dorian just wanted to spare Felix the pain. He had already lived through so much. He couldn't bear it if he caused him any more hurt. Felix meant too much to him to do that.

He saw his father riding up then. Halward Pavus looked like a black shadow outlined in red against the sunset. He was fairly short for a human, but the way he held himself made him appear much taller than he was. His back was stiff and straight in the seat of his saddle and he held his chin cocked upward, evidence of his breeding. When he walked, he moved like a man with purpose. There was no idleness to him or unnecessary fidgeting. He was what Dorian aspired -- and failed at -- to be. Halward was a voice of reason and moderation in the Magisterium, one that many people looked to for guidance. Dorian doubted if anyone would ever seek his advice the way they sought his father's.

"Dorian, what are you doing out here?" He asked as he came to a stop, sliding down from his black mare in one graceful movement. Dorian stood up and went to his father as the man led his horse down the drive by the reigns. He tried to ignore the suspicious tone in Halward's voice. Things had been strained between them since Dorian left Alexius's employ. He knew that if he just explained what had happened his father would understand, but Dorian didn't want him to think badly of Alexius. He was a good man, just pushed into desperation by grief. Alexius would eventually come around. What else could he do? The Venatori had no future. In time, they would fade away like so many cults before them. Dorian saw no need to bring Alexius's misguided views to public attention. Not only would it harm a father who simply wanted to help his son, it would bring ruin to Felix as well and his position was already precarious due to his illness.

"I was waiting for you. I just wondered if you heard any interesting news while in town. It's so dull here."

"You're asking after Felix." It wasn't a question.

Dorian cocked his head like the matter meant little to him. "Oh? Has something happened to him?"

"He's in town for a few days. Staying with a cousin, I believe." Halward took Dorian by the arm, turning him so that he could peer sharply into his face. "And if that's why you came out here to wait for me, why didn't you say so without beating around the bush?"

Dorian could think of nothing to say, and he felt his face growing red with annoyance.

"Is Felix the reason why you abandoned your apprenticeship? Have you been making a spectacle of yourself -- of all of us -- by dallying with him?" Halward demanded, his voice rising. "Have you been running after a _man_ when you could have your pick of girls?"

Anger and hurt pride drove out some of the pain. "I haven't been running after him! We're just friends!"

"Do not take that tone with me," his father reprimanded, but then, looking at his stricken face, he added a bit more kindly: "You are still young. You will grow out of these diversions and settle down soon enough. I will take you to Minrathous next month and you'll be able to spend some time with Livia. You'll soon forget all about Felix."

"Will you stop treating me like a child!" cried Dorian. "I don't want to go to Minrathous or marry Livia. I don't want-" He caught himself but not in time.

Halward was very quiet and he spoke slowly, as though it was taking all of his willpower to hold back the force of his words. "Would you just turn your back on everything then? Tradition, responsibility... do they mean nothing to you?"

"Tradition is what is holding Tevinter back! If we want to become great again then we must change!"

"Without tradition this land wouldn't be Tevinter anymore," Halward countered. "We must preserve our way of life. It is the only thing in this world that lasts, the only thing worth working for-- worth dying for."

Halward sighed then and started to walk once more. "It'll come to you. There's no getting away from it, you were born of Tevinter. What do you know of the outside world except for the things you've read in books? When you are older you will see. There is nothing like Tevinter. Our cities were old when the rest of Thedas still squatted in straw huts. All this Southern business of marrying for love, like servants! I'm sure it sounds very romantic to you, but that isn't love. Just lust, hardly a solid foundation for a marriage. A marriage is a business. It doesn't matter who you marry so long as she is a Tevinter with good breeding and can bear you children. Love -- real love -- will come after."

Dorian wanted to point out that even after thirty years of marriage neither of his parents held any affection for one another, but he had already pushed his father's patience far enough for one evening. They walked together, side-by-side, underneath the avenue of lemon trees, feeling very alone in each other's company.


	2. Chapter 2

Aquinea Pavus was forty-seven years old and, according to the standards of her day, she was a middle-aged woman, a wife and a mother. A state of being which she considered most deplorable. Neither matrimony nor motherhood had come easily to her, and she lived her life as though she was still the belle of every ball. Aquinea was a tall woman, standing nearly a head higher than her husband. From her, Dorian received his height, the aristocratic turn of his mouth, and his tumultuous grey eyes. Although his father's features looked starkly out from his face, the way Dorian twisted them in sarcasm or laughter was all his mother's doing.

As far back as Dorian could remember, his mother had always been the same: that perpetually eighteen year old girl who laughed too loudly and spent her days going from party to party, a glass of wine always within reach. Whereas his father could hardly be stirred from his austere placidity, his mother was a whirlwind of taffeta and gaiety. When Aquinea was dressing for a ball or for guests or even to go to Minrathous for the opening of the Magisterium, it frequently required two hours, two maids and a coiffeur to turn her out to her own satisfaction.

She was more peer than parent to Dorian. She treated him like he was her friend and confidante, not at all like a son. They conspired together, thinking up ways to subvert Halward's ever present will, coming up with excuses to explain the other's absence. So long as Dorian avoided scandal by keeping his dalliances a secret, Aquinea was content to look the other way. If Dorian happened to spy one of her beaus sneaking around the back of the house, then she figured it was only her due that he keep silent on the matter.

However, since his abrupt departure from Alexius's household Dorian was made keenly aware of his mother's silent disapproval. Not only had Dorian refused to divulge his reasons for abandoning his apprenticeship -- and for Aquinea, who sniffed out every scrap of gossip she could find, that was unforgivable; if Dorian knew something about Alexius that she did not, it was his duty to inform her as her son -- but she was also displeased that his antics had resulted in Halward dragging them _both_ out to the Fields like a couple of wayward children.

Dorian struggled through supper that night, reminding himself to make all the appropriate motions, while receiving no help from his mother. She was well into her fifth glass of wine and even if she had been capable of coherent conversation, Halward had no desire to hear it. Dorian wouldn't have said no to being topped off himself, but the slaves knew better than to give him more than what his father allowed. So, he had to endure his father's monologue about the state of the Magisterium completely sober. As his father's heir it was expected that he take Halward's place as Magister upon his death, but for the life of him he couldn't bring himself to care about the dull machinations of old men. Maker forbid they come up with something new, instead of churning out the same rhetoric that had been old since before their great-grandfathers' time. Usually Dorian was too occupied with his own thoughts to pay much attention to Halward's lectures, but tonight he could not shut out his voice. It battered against his ears until Dorian was sure he would not be able to stand another minute. His mind was as if a cyclone had gone through it, and it seemed strange that the dining room where they sat should be so calm, so unchanged from what it had always been. The heavy mahogany table and sideboards, the massive silver, the bright rag rugs on the shining floor were all in their accustomed places, just as if nothing had happened. It seemed incredibly selfish to Dorian that everything should be exactly the same as it always was when his entire being was twisting itself up in anxiety.

Dorian couldn't leave without rousing suspicion, however. He had to arrange his face in careful, neutral lines all throughout supper and afterwards too during evening prayers. Halward led his family into the parlor where they knelt on the floor. Cyrion had to keep a tight hold on Aquinea as she arranged herself -- giggling all the while -- lest she tip right over in a drunken stupor. Halward ignored his wife, and after many years of practice he was a master at pretending to be oblivious. He thumbed open his black leather prayer book and placed it reverently on his lap. The house slaves shuffled and rustled in the hall to kneel by the doorway. Cyrion steadied his mistress before going over to join them, clasping his hands together in devotion. Despite his Fereldan background, he looked every inch the penitent believer. If he objected to the Black Divine's Chant, he never voiced these opinions out loud.

Halward closed his eyes and began praying, his voice rising and falling, lulling and soothing. Heads bowed in the circle of yellow candlelight as Halward thanked the Maker for the health and happiness of his home, his family and his slaves.

"Holy Andraste, Bride of the Maker, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death."

As his voiced droned on, Dorian's thoughts strayed. He knew he should be spending this time examining his conscience and giving thanks, but he had never been a very good Andrastian. Halward and the Maker could add that to his long list of faults. He dropped his head upon his folded hands so that his father could not see his face, and his thoughts anxiously turned back to Felix. Why would he risk his health coming out here? What could be so important to him that he would take a three-day journey out to the Fields?

Then, suddenly, an idea, shining and new, flashed like a comet through his brain.

_Felix is in love with me!_

He almost gasped aloud in the shock of its unexpectedness. His mind stood still as if paralyzed for a long, breathless instant, and then raced forward. Felix knew about his preferences -- half of Minrathous knew just whom exactly he took to his bed, Felix was hardly alone in that -- but he had never once made a move. Why should he? Dorian made it clear that he had long given up any hope of finding love. When he slipped into the shadows with a strange man it was strictly to slake his physical desire, nothing more. _Yes, that's why he's never spoken! He thinks his love is hopeless._

For three years Dorian had lived with Alexius and his son had quickly become his constant companion. Felix was his friend, the only real friend that Dorian had ever had, but what if Felix wanted more?

True, he had never spoke of possessing any romantic feelings for Dorian, nor did his clear eyes ever glow with that hot light Dorian knew so well in other men. And yet, and yet... He could not be mistaken about it. Instinct stronger than reason told him that Felix loved him. Too often Dorian had seen him looking at him with a yearning and a sadness that puzzled him. Now that the idea had lodged itself in his brain, Dorian could not let it go. At that moment, he wanted Felix more than he had ever wanted anything, wanted him as simply and unreasoningly as a child. Oh, why didn't Felix say something before now? Was it because of his illness? Dorian did not care. He would cherish whatever time the Maker allowed them, instead of wasting it by being apart.

Perhaps he had tried to tell him before now. Why, last month, only a couple of days before Alexius approached him with an offer to join the Venatori, Felix had said: "Dorian, I have something important to tell you, though I hardly know how to say it." But then he looked around the street, worried, and said, "Not now! We're nearly home and there isn't time. Maker, what a coward I am." It was all beginning to make sense to him now. If only Felix had gone through with it! Had he known he would not have been so rash in leaving Alexius. Dorian could have spent the last month wrapped in Felix's arms instead of being stuck out here in the Fields.

It didn't matter. They still had time. Felix was going to declare his love at Magister Carloman's ball tomorrow. That's why he journeyed all this way; what a fool Dorian was for not realizing it sooner.

With a start, he realized that his father's eyes were on him. He had neglected to make the responses and Halward was looking at him reprovingly. As he resumed the ritual, he opened his eyes briefly and cast a quick glance around the room. The kneeling figures, the soft glow of candlelight, even the familiar objects that had been so hateful to his sight an hour ago, in an instant took on the color of his own emotions, and the room seemed once more a lovely place.

When the last "Amen" sounded, they all rose, somewhat stiffly. As the slaves turned down the lamps, Dorian seized the moment to escape to his bedchamber. By the time he had undressed and blown out the candle, his plan for tomorrow had worked itself out in every detail. He would find some way to get a few minutes alone with Felix. If he still refused to make the first move, then Dorian would simply have to do it himself. Lying in the bed with the moonlight streaming dimly over him, he pictured the whole scene in his mind. He saw the look of surprise and happiness that would come over Felix's face when he realized that Dorian really loved him, that he didn't care about his illness or how short a time they might have together.

Then a slight chill entered his heart. Suppose it didn't work out this way? Suppose Felix hadn't come to the Fields to confess his love? Resolutely he pushed the thought from his mind.

 _I won't think of that now,_ he thought firmly. _If I think of it now, it will only upset me. There's no reason why things won't come out the way I want them. He loves me. I know he does._

Halward had tried to teach his son many things, but one thing that Dorian could never seem to learn was that desire and attainment were two different matters. Dorian lay in the silvery shadows and made the plans that a young man makes when life has been so pleasant that defeat seemed like an impossibility.


	3. Chapter 3

It was ten o'clock in the morning. The day was hot for Ferventis and the golden sunlight streamed brilliantly into Dorian's room through the blue curtains of the wide windows. Summer was in the air and a balmy, soft warmth filled the chamber, heavy with velvety smells, redolent of many blossoms, of newly fledged trees and of the moist, freshly turned red earth. The Fields had ripened into beauty, but Dorian had no eye for it beyond a hasty thought: _Thank the Maker, it isn't raining._ On the bed lay the dark, forest green robe that he was to wear for Magister Carloman's party, but Dorian shrugged at the sight of it. It was handsome, but conservative. He really would look like his father in it.

Which outfit would best set off his charms and make him most irresistible to Felix? Since eight o'clock he had been trying on and rejecting robes, and now he stood dejected and irritable in silk smallclothes. Discarded garments lay about him on the floor, the bed, the chairs, in bright heaps of color. The dark red was becoming and fit tightly across his chest, but unsuitable for the heat. The black samite set off his features superbly, but it did make him look a trifle elderly. Dorian peered anxiously in the mirror at his youthful face as if expecting to see wrinkles despite only being twenty-nine. With a sly grin, Dorian picked up the velvet robe that had been made special for him in Minrathous. "Robe" was a rather loose term, considering it was only _half_ a robe. Like the set he had worn yesterday, this one also sported a high cut along his left shoulder, exposing more skin than was proper for an Altus. But what would really set tongues wagging was the asymmetrical hem of the skirt. It didn't even cover his right leg, baring the tight-fitting trousers he wore underneath that left little to the imagination. As he stood before the mirror and twisted himself about to get a better view, he thought that there was absolutely nothing about his figure to cause him shame, even if it was not correct to show it.

A swift knock announced Cyrion's arrival. His father had promised to buy him his own valet once he had been presented to the Magisterium, but since Alexius had been his sponsor Dorian had no idea when that would actually happen. It could be years before Halward found another mage suitable enough to take him on as his mentor, leaving him trapped in a kind of limbo, neither man nor child in the eyes of the law. Despite reaching the age of his majority, Dorian was barred from taking on the full responsibilities of an Altus until his presentation. At this rate he would be an old man before that happened!

Dorian didn't bother to look up as Cyrion entered, his eyes still riveted to his own reflection. His moustache needed trimming. "Elves are so lucky they don't have to bother with facial hair," Dorian commented as the valet laid out his rings.

"Yes, I am incredibly lucky to be an elf in this fine country," replied Cyrion, but the sarcasm was lost on Dorian. "Have you decided on what you are going to wear?"

"That," answered Dorian, pointing at the mass of rich velvet and sinful leather. Cyrion's gray brows shot up to his hairline.

"Your father will not allow it."

"We're already running late. There won't be enough time for Father to send me back up to change, and this party is important. I have to be there. Otherwise, Father might not be able to find a new sponsor for me."

"I doubt he'll be able to if you showed up wearing that," Cyrion said, but dutifully resumed his task, helping Dorian dress and righting the many buckles and straps.

"I don't see why it should matter. Soporati forego robes completely, so do most Southern men. Why shouldn't people be able to see the shape of my legs? They're rather nice, if I say so myself."

"In case it has escaped your notice, you are neither Southern nor Soporati. There." Cyrion announced him ready, though he continued to pull a bit on the straps in a futile attempt to make his outfit more modest. "You best get downstairs. Your father is waiting."

As if on cue, his father's voice rang out through the house and Dorian hurriedly ran outside to meet him. Halward's eyes swept over Dorian's outfit, but he said nothing, just shooed him into the carriage before climbing up after him. His mother was already there waiting, smiling and looking absolutely radiant. "I love those robes on you," she said. "It shows off your best features." Dorian laughed at Halward's bone weary sigh upon hearing his wife's encouragement. A party was all that was needed to lift Aquinea's spirits. She pulled her son in close to her side and angled her parasol so that the sun was out of his face. Any hard feelings caused by his antics had been forgiven and forgotten now that Halward had granted her permission to be out in society again.

As the carriage bore them down the red road toward Magister Carloman's villa, Dorian had a feeling of guilty pleasure at the look on his father's face when Dorian told him he would be returning to Alexius's service. It would probably be enough to drive Halward to madness. Of course, there was still the problem concerning the Venatori. No matter. With Felix at his side, Dorian would be able to convince Alexius that the whole thing was foolish. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that reminded him of the last time he spoke with Alexius, how unshakeable he was in his faith in them. Nothing was going to ruin this day. He was pretty and he knew it, he would have Felix for his own before the day was over, the sun was warm and tender, and the glory of a Tevinter summer was spread before his eyes. Everything was perfect.

The sound of hooves and carriage wheels and clamorous feminine voices raised in pleasant dispute could be heard as they neared the intersection. Halward and Dorian twisted in their seats and bowed as Lady Tycho and her unruly daughters came into view. The carriage was overflowing with lace and ruffles in a rainbow of colors, the heads of the four Tycho girls could barely be seen above their voluminous dresses. Lady Tycho herself sat on the box, holding on to the reigns as her horses beat out an unrelenting pace. Frail, fine-boned, so white of skin that her flaming hair seemed to have drawn all the color from her face into its vital burnished mass, Lady Tycho was nevertheless possessed of exuberant health and untiring energy.

"This is certainly a pretty gathering," Dorian called gallantly as they came up beside her. "But their loveliness couldn't hold a candle to their mother's."

Lady Tycho rolled her eyes and waved her riding crop at him for his cheek, not bothering to hide her grin. The girls all shrieked with laughter, "Ma, stop making eyes or we'll tell Pa!"

"Dorian Pavus, you sound like your father when he was your age!" Lady Tycho shook her fiery mane in amusement.

Well, wasn't that interesting! Dorian shot a teasing smile at Halward, who had gone red in the face and was looking studiously at anything except Lady Tycho. "You couldn't possibly be referring to this old man beside me! If you have stories to tell you must share them!"

"Where are your boys?" Halward asked quickly. Dorian leaned back against the seat and shared a look of conspiracy with his mother. They'd get the truth from Lady Tycho.

"Oh, they rode over hours ago to sample the punch and see if it was strong enough," replied Lady Tycho. "As if they wouldn't have from now till tomorrow morning to do it! I'm going to ask Magister Carloman to keep them overnight, even if he has to bed them down in the stable. Five men in their cups are just too much for me. Say, have you heard the news that the Alexius boy from Minrathous is to be at the ball? What's his name? Faustus? Bless the child, he's a good boy, but I can never remember either his name or face, even when he visited regularly. Before the accident, I mean. It's a terrible shame what happened, still I'm not sure it's appropriate for him to be here. I don't want my girls catching the Blight."

And just like that Dorian's good mood dissipated. It was as though the sun had ducked behind a cool cloud, leaving the world in shadow, taking the color out of things. The freshly green foliage looked sickly, the lemon trees pallid, and the flowers, so beautiful a moment ago, faded and dreary. Dorian dug his fingers into the upholstery of the carriage, trying to reign in the pulse of anger and heat.

"Felix is not contagious, the healers have made sure of it. There is no reason why the boy can't enjoy himself with the time he has left in this world," Halward reprimanded. Dorian looked up at his father's defense and felt a rush of love for him. Trust that Halward would see that no injustice go unpunished, no matter how slight.

"Maker, Mother, do let's go on!" Beatrix Tycho cried impatiently. "This sun is broiling me!"

"Alright, girls, alright," Lady Tycho relented. "We'll see you at Magister Carloman's!" And with a hitch of her reigns the horses took off, the girls bouncing and laughing in their seats.

Their own carriage continued on in a more sedate pace, crossing the river and rolling through the fields. Even before Magister Carloman's villa came into view, Dorian saw the haze of smoke hanging lazily in the tops of the tall trees and smelled the mingled savory odors of roasted pork and mutton. The long trestle tables, covered with the finest of Magister Carloman's linen, stood under thick shade, with backless benches on either side. Chairs, hassocks and cushions from the house were scattered about the glade for those who did not fancy the benches. Over behind the barn there was a roast pit where the house slaves and coachmen and maids of the guests had their own feast.

The wide curving drive was full of saddle horses and carriages and guests alighting and calling greetings to friends. Swarms of children ran yelling about the newly green lawn, playing hopscotch and tag and boasting how much they were going to eat. The girls were all dressed in their finest, bright as butterflies. It was amusing to see just how out of date the styles were. The girls in Minrathous all wore farthingales, some so wide that they had to enter a room sideways. They wouldn't be caught dead in the get-ups these Valarian girls sported.

On the steps stood Magister Carloman, silver-haired, erect, radiating the quiet charm and hospitality that was as warm and never failing as the sun of a Tevinter summer. Beside him was his daughter Hortensia, fidgeting and giggling as she called greetings to the arriving guests. Dorian's eyes searched the crowd for Felix, even while he made pleasant small talk with the Magister. There were cries of greeting from a dozen voices and the Tycho boys moved toward him. Flora and Fortuna Sallustius rushed up to exclaim over his robes, and he was speedily the center of a circle of voices that rose higher and higher in efforts to be heard above the din. But where was Felix? He tried not to be obvious as he looked about and peered down the hall into the laughing group inside.

As he chattered and laughed and cast quick glances into the villa and the courtyard, his eyes fell on a stranger, standing alone in the hall, staring at him in a cool impertinent way. He looked quite old, about forty-five, tall and powerfully built. When he caught his eye, he smiled, showing an animal-like curl to his lip. There was a cool recklessness in his face and a cynical humor in his eyes as he looked at him, and Dorian caught his breath. He knew that look.

"I need to speak with my father for a moment," Dorian told Flora and Fortuna, who were trying to pull him away from the crowd. "Remember, you two promised me all of your waltzes! I have no idea how I am to waltz with two girls at the same time, but I'm sure we'll make it work."

The twins reluctantly let him go and Dorian all but fled down the hall into the villa. He found Beatrix Tycho preening before a mirror and biting her lips to make them look redder. There were fresh roses in her sash that matched her cheeks and her cornflower-blue eyes were dancing with excitement. "Beatrix," said Dorian, pulling her away from the mirror. "Who is that man over there?" He gestured at the stranger who had wandered off to speak with Magister Carloman. "I've never seen him here before."

"Don't you know?" whispered Beatrix, excited by the prospect of knowing something that city-borne Dorian Pavus did not. "I can't imagine how Magister Carloman must feel having him here, but he's a guest of Lord Geta. He couldn't just turn him away."

"What is the matter with him? What did he do?"

"Oh, Dorian, he has the most terrible reputation. His name is Rilienus Galeo and he's from Vyrantium and his family are some of the nicest people there, but they won't even speak to him. I heard about him last summer. He was expelled from the Circle. Imagine! And there was that business about the girl he didn't marry because, well..." Here she blushed fiercely. "He would rather be a catamite than a proper man."

It took all of Dorian's willpower to keep from laughing. It was a good thing Halward managed to hush up those rumors coming out of Minrathous. He could only imagine how scandalized she would be if she heard what he had gotten up to while in Alexius's employ. "I will speak to you later," he said. "And save a waltz for me! You know you're the only girl I want to dance with."

Beatrix giggled and waved him off. Dorian wandered out into the courtyard where most of the guests had congregated. He spotted Felix standing off to the side by himself, nervously shifting from foot to foot. There was a worried furrow between his brow and Dorian longed to go over and soothe it away with a joke and a smile like old times. Suddenly a man's voice broke over the crowd, loud and raging with fury. "Maker's breath, man! Pray for a peaceable settlement between the Southern mages and Templars after all that's happened? Peaceable? The South has abused their mages for far too long to allow any kind of peace!"

Predictably, the crowd thronged forward to offer their own opinion at the first hint of any debate regarding the current situation in the South. "Of course we have to help them --" "Templar bastards --" "Tevinter should be more concerned about the Qunari than Southerners --" "What benefit is there in getting tangled up in that mess --" "The Venatori claim it is our moral duty --" "The Venatori are heathen cultists, what moral high ground do they have --" The din swelled to new heights.

"Magister Pavus, you have not favored us with your opinion," said Lord Sallustius, turning from the group of shouting men, and -- with a humility his father was well known for -- Halward excused himself from Lady Tycho and rose.

"I hope my fellow Magisters will have the good sense to keep the peace. Most of the misery of the world has been caused by wars and when the wars were over, no one ever knew what they were all about. Tevinter has seen more than her fair share of war and bloodshed, let's not invite more."

"War, is it?" Cried a deaf old gentleman. "I'll tell them about war!" He stumped rapidly to the group, waving his cane and shouting and, because he could not hear the voices about him, he soon had undisputed possession of the field. "You fire-eating young bucks, listen to me. You don't want to fight. I fought and I know. I was a big enough fool to go to Seheron. You all don't know what war is. You think it's riding a pretty horse and having the girls throw flowers at you and coming home a hero. Well, it isn't. It's going hungry, and getting the measles and pneumonia from sleeping in the wet mud. And if it isn't pneumonia and measles, it's your bowels. Yes sir, what war does to a man's bowels, dysentery and things like that--"

Some of the guests were turning green at his words. "Run get your grandpa," hissed the old gentleman's daughter to a young boy standing nearby. "I say," she whispered to the fluttering matrons about her. "He gets worse every day."

In all the commotion, no one noticed when Dorian slipped up beside Felix and pulled on his wrist. Felix allowed himself to be led into the empty library. The curtains had been partially drawn, leaving the room in semi-darkness. Dark, secluded, and surrounded by books? Dorian couldn't think of a more perfect place for his confession. "I'm glad you found me," Felix said. "I have something I need to tell you."

"I do as well."

"Please, you first." Felix seemed almost relieved for an excuse not to speak.

"I-" Dorian swallowed thickly. His heart was pounding far too fast. What if he was wrong? What if Felix didn't care for him that way? Or worse... what if he did? Suddenly all the pretty dreams of a future he had imagined for them seemed stupid and childish. They couldn't have a normal life together. But, by the Maker, he wanted him to stay. He was so tired of being alone. "I love you." He said it quietly and simply. There was nothing else he could say. It was the truth.

Felix said nothing. Somewhere outside Dorian could hear the wild shouts of voices and the calls for horses. It sounded like a stampede. None of that mattered. All Dorian cared about was the look in Felix's eyes. There was dismay, incredulity and something more-- what was it? He thought he remembered seeing a similar look on Halward's face when his favorite horse broke its leg and needed to be put down. Such a silly thought.

"Dorian, you have been the truest friend I have ever had. You stayed at my side even after the darkspawn attack, when I was infected with the Blight, and I'll never be able to properly thank you for that." Felix looked down at his boots. Friend. He had said friend. Once again Dorian had gotten it all wrong. He felt himself grow cold with humiliation. If only he could be magically transported back home to Qarinus where he wouldn't have to see that pitying look on Felix's face ever again. But Felix wasn't done talking. "I know my father tried to recruit you to the Venatori."

Dorian didn't know what to say to that, but it seemed like Felix didn't need an answer. He gave a sad half-smile. "He believes they have a cure for my illness. The old gods have long since left us, I don't know why he thinks they'll help us now. It's no excuse, I know, but when he leaves Minrathous I'll be going with him. Someone needs to take care of him. I wanted to come here and tell you, in case you didn't return before we left. I don't know exactly when it'll be. He's waiting for some sort of signal from their leader -- whoever that is -- but it can't be long now, not with what's happened."

Dorian's mouth had gone dry at Felix's speech, but at that he made an effort to compose himself, licking his chapped lips and croaking, "What do you mean?"

Felix looked startled. "You haven't heard? The news hasn't reached the Fields yet? The White Divine is dead. Someone assassinated her, blew up the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Hundreds were killed."

"But what does that have to do with you?" Dorian demanded. "Are the Venatori to blame?"

"No, but many of our old friends from the city are joining the Venatori because of it. With the White Divine dead, they believe it is the perfect time to strike and regain the Empire, regardless of what the Magisterium may say."

"So, you're what? Going off to war?" Dorian demanded, anger swiftly overtaking his humiliation. Yes, this was better. Rage was easier to handle than the fear and anxiety and shame that twisted his insides like a knife. "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! Alexius is a fool and you're an even bigger fool for following him! Admit it, you're too much of a coward to stand up to him!"

A look of anguish came over Felix and he reached out his hand to him, but Dorian shoved him roughly away. Felix stumbled back and fell against the bookcase. Suddenly his rage was gone, and there was nothing but desolation in Dorian's heart. Felix slowly got to his feet and Dorian wanted to help him, to tell him how sorry he was, but he was paralyzed by his own inability. Felix said nothing, merely grasped Dorian's still outstretched hand. He pressed his palm to his lips and kissed it. Then he was gone before Dorian could speak again, closing the door softly behind him.

Dorian collapsed in one of the high backed chairs, his knees feeling very weak. Felix was gone and the memory of his stricken face would haunt him till he died. He heard the soft muffled sound of Felix's footsteps dying away down the long hall, and the complete enormity of his actions came over Dorian. He had lost him forever. Now Felix would hate him and every time he saw him he would remember how he had thrown himself at him when he had given him no encouragement and all the bitter, cruel words that Dorian had said at being denied.

His hand dropped to a little table beside him, fingering a tiny porcelain rose-bowl. The room was so still he almost screamed to break the silence. He must do something or go mad. He picked up the bowl and hurled it viciously across the room toward the fireplace. It cleared over the back of the blue velvet sofa, where it splintered with a little crash against the marble mantelpiece.

“This,” said a voice from the depths of the sofa, “is too much.”

Dorian leapt to his feet as Rilienus Galeo rose from the sofa where he had been lying and bowed with exaggerated politeness. "Is it bad enough to have an afternoon nap disturbed by such a passage as I've been forced to hear, but why should my life be endangered?"

Maker's breath, he had heard everything! Dorian rallied his forces into a semblance of dignity. "You should have made your presence known."

“Indeed?” His white teeth gleamed and his bold dark eyes laughed at him. “But you were the intruder. I thought it best to remove myself from the festivities given my chilly reception and came here where I thought I would be undisturbed. But, alas!" he shrugged and laughed softly.

“Eavesdroppers--” Dorian began furiously.

“Eavesdroppers often hear highly entertaining and instructive things,” Rilienus grinned. “Such as a certain reputation you've garnered for yourself, Dorian Pavus. There is a particular club I frequent in Minrathous and your name has come up in conversation often. Of course, this was all hearsay, it didn't become truth until just now. I fail to understand what charms the young Master Alexius can hold for a man of your temper and spirit, but you've gained my interest. If you ask me, I might be amenable--”

"You aren't fit to wipe Felix's boots!" he shouted in rage.

"And here I thought he was a coward and a fool!" Rilienus clutched his chest and laughed.

Before Dorian could reply, the doors to the library flew open. "Dorian, where have you--" The voices cut off and Dorian turned to see Beatrix Tycho, the Sallustius twins, and his own father staring at him with shocked expressions. It only took a second for Dorian to realize what this must look like. He was standing close to a known degenerate in a dark, empty library. His face was flushed with anger, but they would see only lust. He had just destroyed the reputation his father had managed to salvage.


	4. Chapter 4

It was good fortune that the courier had shown up when he did. While Dorian was making a damned fool of himself in front of a complete stranger, a messenger from the capital had arrived in a flurry of excitement. Qarinus, Vyrantium, Minrathous... all had erupted in patriotic fever at the news of the White Divine's death. People thronged in the streets, demanding that the Archon march his armies into the South and "restore order"-- a pretty euphemism for an invasion if Dorian ever heard one. The Venatori were the loudest of these agitators and their ranks continued to grow with each passing day. The Archon had had no choice but to open the Magisterium for a special session. Magisters Carloman and Pavus were required to attend without delay, which is how Dorian found himself whiling away the hours in his father's Minrathous townhouse.

It afforded Dorian the perfect excuse to leave the Fields without looking like a coward. So far, his conduct at Magister Carloman's banquet was knowledge only to a select few. Most were too caught up in the fervor of war to pay much attention to country gossip.

Still, his father took no chances. He had ordered that Dorian remain inside, on threat of being locked in. When his presence was required at some social function or another, he was to be chaperoned by either Halward or Aquinea at all times. The boredom was beginning to be unbearable. Even if Dorian had the freedom to enjoy the city's diversions, most of the young people his age had gone off to join the Venatori. With nothing to do, Dorian's thoughts constantly turned to Felix. He had no chance of seeking him out, not that he knew what he would say even if he did find him. He could only pray that he hadn't left Minrathous yet. His stomach was twisted in anxiety at the thought of Felix going off to war.

Whenever his father was called to the Magisterium, Dorian insisted on coming as well in hopes of hearing something about Felix. Alexius hadn't bothered to attend the sessions for some time now, and when the Secretary noted his absence at the beginning of each opening it no longer even caused a stir. Where he was the other Magisters couldn't say, nor did they particularly care. It was clear they all thought he had gone mad.

Halward had assumed that the childish malaise that had fallen over his son would soon dissipate, but as the days passed Dorian grew thin, pale and sharp-tongued. It was not unusual for Dorian to throw a tantrum at being rebuked -- his flair for melodrama had obviously come from his mother -- but Halward worried at the child's lack of appetite and listlessness. Perhaps the boy had finally realized the enormity of his actions and was deeply regretful for how he had conducted himself? It was the only explanation that made sense. Halward redoubled his efforts on finding a new mentor for his son. The sooner he found a sponsor, the sooner Dorian could be presented to the Magisterium. He would finally gain the legal standing he needed to wed Livia. A marriage was just the thing to quell these rumors and restore his honor.

It was difficult to find someone willing to take him on. Despite the bribes and strings Halward had pulled to quiet the bevy of lovers Dorian had left behind in Minrathous while in Alexius's employ, word had gotten back to the Magisters. No one wanted to run the risk of taking him on only to be caught up in whatever new scandal Dorian found himself in. Which left only one person: Lady Jolanta Herathinos, Livia's aunt and guardian. Although not illegal, it wasn't exactly _de rigeur_ either. Having Dorian sponsored by the aunt of his betrothed implied that he was not talented enough to find a mentor on his own. The papers on time alteration that Dorian had co-authored with Alexius had cemented his brilliance amongst the Alti, and that would mitigate some of the shame at least. At this point, there weren't many options left.

So Dorian's trunk was packed again and off he went with Cyrion and a headful of admonitions as to his conduct from Halward and a hundred gold imperials from Aquinea. He did not especially want to go. He thought Jolanta Herathinos to be the silliest of old ladies and the very idea of living under the same roof as his fiancée was abhorrent. But his father made it clear that this was his last chance. Dorian didn't know exactly what would happen if he wasn't presented to the Magisterium; it was required of every adult Altus and there was usually someone willing to take on even the most inept mage in exchange for favors. Would he even be his father's heir anymore? Dorian sighed to himself as he leaned back in the carriage. How like him to be the first.

As the carriage rolled down the wet and muddy streets, Dorian looked out at the faces passing by. Every now and then he could spot a red hood in the crowd-- a proud member of the Venatori. It would have been unheard of to flaunt such a connection just a few short months prior. Tevinter may have its own Chant and Divine, but it was still an Andrastian nation. It should not tolerate heathen cults like the Venatori. What madness had consumed his countrymen! Sometimes it felt like Dorian was the only one with any sense left at all (oh, and how his father would laugh at that thought!). The carriage turned down a little lane where a row of ancient mansions stood. At the last house on the street, backed against the cliffs that rose starkly above the Nocen Sea, Lady Herathinos teetered excitedly, one hand pressed to her copious bosom to still her fluttering heart. Livia stood next to her, looking calm and sedate. Ever the picture of Tevinter gentility.

Lady Jolanta Herathinos was a sweet, unworldly woman who had lived a very sheltered life. Her younger half-sister, Magister Amalia Herathinos, took care of her every need. In the South, primogeniture was the law of the land and no doubt they would have accused Amalia of stealing her elder sister's rightful inheritance. But the title of Magister was conferred by the Magisterium, not inherited. As there were no other heirs to House Pavus, Dorian was the only acceptable candidate to receive his father's title, but it wasn't unheard of for the Magisterium to completely overlook natural children in favor of a spouse, sibling, or even distant cousin when electing a new Magister. Jolanta was unsuited for that life; it would have been like throwing a lamb into a den of wolves. So, her little sister stepped up instead. Lady Jolanta Herathinos liked to prattle on for hours about other people's affairs in a harmless kindly way, but had no memory for names, dates or places. She offended no one, for no one was foolish enough to take seriously anything she said. No one ever told her anything really shocking or scandalous, for her innocence must be protected even if she was sixty years old, and her friends were in a kindly conspiracy to keep her a sheltered and petted old child. She had obviously not heard any of the rumors that hounded Dorian's every step, or she would not have seemed so happy to see him.

Livia he had not seen in some time. Despite making his home just a few short blocks away for the past three years, Dorian had endeavored to avoid her at every possible turn, and she the same. She had grown from a coltish, skinny child into a strangely beautiful woman. Her hair, eyes, and skin were all colored the same shade of earthy brown, like an artist had painted over her in one single, simple brush stroke. Her sameness made her all the more striking. Livia smiled sweetly up at him as he stepped out of the carriage, as though she wasn't at all embarrassed by her fiance turning up at her doorstep because he couldn't find a sponsor. "Dorian, I'm so glad you're here!" She called out, linking her arm with his. Dorian gallantly squired her inside the mansion while Cyrion attended to the trunks. "Aunt Jolanta and I have planned a supper in your honor this evening, the first guests should be arriving in the next couple of hours, so you must get upstairs and change right away. I looked for you at Drusilla's nameday party last week, but you weren't there. I hear your beastly father's been keeping you under lock and key after that stunt you pulled with Alexius."

"Is that what you heard?" Dorian asked, forcing a smile to grace his features. "Well, he's left me to your tender mercies now."

"What makes you think they'll be tender?" She grinned cheekily up at him. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say."

That evening Dorian came downstairs to see that the dining hall had been filled with flowers and greenery. The candlelight sparkled against the silver, giving the room an otherworldly shimmer. The ceiling had been transformed by the long graceful ropes of ivy hanging from the chandelier. Dorian hoped Lady Herathinos had remembered to enchant it; the last thing he wanted was for all those lovely green leaves to suddenly go up in flames. He had just sat down at the place of honor when he had to rise again and bow to the first guests entering the room. And again and again and again. It seemed like every time he settled in comfortably, Livia was ushering in someone new and he had to get up all over again. Soon, the hall was bursting with life. It was full of girls in pretty dresses and handsome men in high-collared robes. Dorian was well-acquainted with most of them, though there were a few new faces. Fresh from the Circle, no doubt, and hadn't even been out in society for a year.

Dorian kissed the hand of a young girl - no more than seventeen - who blushed fiercely and giggled, before being led quickly away by her mother. "Dorian, I'd like you to meet someone!" Livia called out. Dorian turned to look and saw the most peculiar smile on her face. It was as sweet and simple as her Aunt Jolanta's, but there was a twist tugging at her lips like she was trying to keep from laughing. The moment he saw who was hanging on her arm, he knew why. He was dressed in black robes, a tall man, and as foppishly groomed as Dorian himself. Rilienus Galeo. What was he doing here? Why would Livia compromise both of their reputations by letting him inside?

Livia sat him down next to Dorian at the table, while she took her place across from him on Lady Herathinos's other side. "I hardly hoped that you would recall me, Master Pavus."

Dorian looked up at him imploringly, his face crimson with shame of their last meeting, and met two of the blackest eyes he had ever seen, dancing in merciless merriment. Of all the people in the world to turn up here, it was this terrible person who had witnessed that scene with Felix.

"You met before?" Livia inquired, quirking her brow and grinning.

"At a garden party hosted by Magister Carloman," Rilienus said. "In the library. I believe Master Pavus had broken something."

Livia turned to him, but luckily Dorian was excused from answering for just then the servants had arrived with the first course-- a dish of roasted cygnet stuffed with grape leaves. With Livia sufficiently distracted, Rilienus leaned over to whisper in his ear, "You don't seem very happy to see me. Are you worried I'll tell everyone what had transpired between you and that Alexius boy? You needn't worry. Your guilty secret is safe with me."

"Too bad my reputation isn't," Dorian hissed back.

"If you're brave enough you can do without a reputation."

"Oh, Livia, I do hope there will be dancing later!" Cried one of the younger girls. And with that the whole table roared in chorus, the bright young things leaping for a chance to dance. There was a mad rush to the ballroom, dinners only half-eaten, while the parents of these babes sighed and rolled their eyes good-naturedly. Something resembling music floated into the dining hall as one of them pounded on the harpsichord and another attempted to sing.

Rilienus shot him a cocky grin. "Why don't you ask me to dance? I'll say yes."

Dorian nearly choked on his food. "Are you out of your mind?"

"You're still not worried about your reputation, are you? It's in shreds anyway, so why not enjoy yourself?"

Lady Herathinos was completely oblivious to the drama going on right underneath her nose, but her guests had noticed the fervent whispering between Dorian and Rilienus. They watched the pair out of the corner of their eyes, memorizing every detail so that they could tell their friends later. _Of course, of course, how stupid of me_ , Dorian thought. Livia was grinning like a cat as she stared unabashedly at the two. This was all her fault.

"My dear Livia, would you care for a dance?" He asked quickly. Maybe he could still salvage this evening.

"Of course. Anything for you, Dorian," she answered, her voice ringing with laughter.

* * *

"Oh, I wish someone had warned me about him!" Lady Herathinos wailed during breakfast the next morning. She had overheard everything that had gone on between Rilienus and Dorian -- and a few things that hadn't, but were added in to give the story a little more spice -- from one of the house slaves. The letter from Halward that had been delivered with that morning's mail had only confirmed everything in her mind and she was almost in hysterics. "I would have never let him into the house. I've known the Galeos for years, how could such a nice family turn out someone like him? That Rilienus is a terrible, terrible person, Dorian. You must be careful. He would prey on your good nature if you let him!"

Livia snorted into her napkin, only just managing to pass it off as a sneeze.

"Oh! What will your father say when he gets here? What does he think of me? He must be questioning my fitness as a chaperone after what happened. I-I need to lie down. I think I'm going to be ill. Give my apologies to your father when he comes." Lady Herathinos shakily stood up, a handkerchief pressed to her face as large, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She would be no help to Dorian.

Dorian angrily balled the note from his father and threw it in a corner. Just when he thought he was finally free of his father's scoldings too. And he didn't even do anything this time! It wasn't fair. Livia looked on in amusement at this childish display while placidly sipping her tea. "I don't know why you're so happy," Dorian snapped. "You're my fiancée. Anything I do is just going to reflect back onto you."

"Yes, and soon Aunt Amalia will have to break the engagement." Livia sighed happily. She looked dreamily out the window, enjoying the beauty of a lovely summer day. "It would be social suicide to allow her niece to marry a disgraced catamite. I'll be free of you."

"Well played."

"Thank you."

"Though I wish you'd thought up a plan that didn't involve ruining me."

Livia shrugged. "An opportunity presented itself and I took it. Oh, don't look so glum, Dorian. Amarinta had her fiance assassinated."

The butler entered the dining hall with a click of his heels. "Magister Pavus has arrived, Young Miss."

"Send him in," Livia commanded as she slid gracefully to her feet. "Good luck, Dorian." She whispered and scurried out through one of the side doors just as the butler led his father into the hall.

Halward's face was frighteningly impassive as he took a seat next to Dorian. For a long moment he said nothing, just looked into Dorian's face. Searching, but for what Dorian couldn't say. Eventually, he said, "I've spoken with Magister Herathinos."

"Oh?" Dorian asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Everything was just falling perfectly into place for Livia. How lovely for her. If only he was half as lucky.

"Word certainly travels fast in this city. She already knows of your disgrace, everyone knows. It's a shameful way you've acted. It is a lucky thing she has decided not to break the contract between our families. I'm sure it isn't completely altruistic on her part; House Herathinos has suffered a decline in their finances in recent years, I suspect Pavus gold played a large role in her decision. But such a thing cannot happen again. You need to marry and quickly before this spirals out of control, more than it already has. We've gone to the Magisterium. They're willing to overlook your status and allow you to marry."

An angry shout came from somewhere behind Dorian, muffled by a door. He ignored it, still too busy trying to wrap his head around what his father just told him. "But I can't! I haven't been presented yet! It wouldn't be legal!"

"It's not unheard of. I can sign your name for you, so long as I have the Magisterium's permission."

"So, that's it? I don't even have a say in it?" Dorian jerked to his feet. He could feel his face heat as the anger rolled inside him. This was... This was insane! He wouldn't go through it, no matter what his father said.

"No, you do not," Halward snapped. His face darkened and his eyes bored into Dorian, piercing through him and leaving him trembling. "You still belong to me. I am the _pater familias_ , if I so wanted I could sell you into slavery. Have you executed so that I might better my line by weeding out your undesirable defects. Set you up as a prostitute in some bordello, since you so obviously desire to make a catamite of yourself. I could do all of this and the law would be on my side. If you hadn't acted like a foolish child, then maybe you would have been presented by now. You could have refused -- though why I haven't a clue -- and I would have to accept that. But you threw away that chance. You have no one to blame but yourself." Halward stood up. He was breathing heavily, his hands shaking. Dorian had never seen his father so enraged. But when he spoke his voice was calm and even. "The wedding will take place two weeks from now. I suggest you make peace with this."

He turned quickly on heel and stormed out, leaving Dorian alone in his wake.


	5. Chapter 5

The days seemed to slip through Dorian's fingers like water. At first, he hadn't believed his father when he told him the wedding would commence in a fortnight. After the fight in the dining room, Halward had seemed ashamed of his own loss of control and sought to make up for it by increasing Dorian's allowance-- as was the usual routine whenever his father spoke harshly to him. Dorian could admit that he vexed Halward to no end sometimes, but his father loved him. He didn't mean the things he said. So, Dorian was content to push all threats of slavery and murder from his mind and go on as he had before. That is until he saw Livia weeping in her wedding dress. He had come downstairs one morning to find an elven seamstress trying to coax Livia back onto the dressing stool while Lady Herathinos fluttered about uselessly. The girl was hunched over the floor, voluminous swaths of white silk brocade falling over her like a mountain of snow. Loud, hiccuping sobs erupted from her throat with each shake of her shoulders.

Dorian quickly fled, unable to bear the sight.

His entire life was unraveling before his eyes. He was falling head first into a great, black chasm and no one seemed to care. Dorian wanted to run back home, beg his mother to intercede on his behalf, but she would just roll her eyes and say, "Livia is a woman, not a giant man-eating spider." Then she would hand him a treat and awkwardly pat his head as though he was still five years old and could be soothed with such simple comforts. He could stand in the middle of the street and just scream until his lungs burned and his throat gave out and all the neighbors would just cluck their tongues. "Such childish behavior! I don't understand. Livia is a fine young girl and there's no shortage of slaves to sate any desire." How could they not see the cages they built for themselves? Were they willfully blind? There was no contentment to be found in these illusions that they so desperately clung to. Propriety! Honor! Tradition! As if any of those things could replace love or happiness.

Dorian walked down the empty streets of Minrathous. Every day the city seemed to lose more and more of its young people to the Venatori. Even the Sallustius twins had marched off to the South in search of glory. What news that trickled in from the South spoke of a giant rift in the Fade -- the Breach, as Dorian heard them call it -- and many here believed it to be an omen heralding the return of the ancient gods. The old men were dusting off their dragon idols that had been hidden in trunks and basements for centuries, placing them reverently beside Andraste in their hearth shrines. Madness!

Dorian was so lost in his own thoughts he almost didn't see him at first. He looked nothing like he had that day at Magister Carloman's party. Felix Alexius stood in front of him across the cobblestone street, bent over and clothed in a patched yellow robe. There was a sickly sallow tint to his complexion and grim lines were beginning to emerge about his mouth. Where he had once been cheerful and optimistic, he was now as alert as a prowling cat, with the tenseness of one whose nerves are perpetually drawn as tight as the strings of a violin. In his eyes there was a haunted look and the sunburned skin was tight across the fine bones of his face-- his same handsome Felix, yet so different.

This Felix in his faded robes was a different man from the easy-going boy he had loved to desperation. Dorian was frightened by the violence of his feelings. When he had stood in the library of Magister Carloman's villa, he had thought he could never love him with a more heartbreaking intensity than he did at that moment. But now he knew his feelings of that long-past afternoon were those of a spoiled child thwarted of a toy. Now, his emotions were sharpened by his long dreams of him, heightened by the repression he had been forced to put on his tongue, by his rejection of him.

There was a strange expression in Felix's face as he ran up to him. He looked wild and afraid and quite suddenly Dorian found himself crushed in an embrace. Felix did not pull him close like a lover as Dorian had hoped, nor clasped him like a brother as was expected, but clung to him. Like a child pulling on his mother's skirts. He pressed a fierce, passionless kiss to his cheek and said, "Dorian! You brilliant, brilliant thing!"

Dorian wanted to quip. _Oh? You just now noticed?_ But the words were strangled in his throat. He doubted Felix would have even heard him. He was casting feverish glances all around them, at the pinched expressions of elderly matrons who turned up their noses at such a display, and then he was pulling Dorian into a darkened alleyway. Dorian would be lying if he said a man had never done this to him before. Embraces and kisses and dark alleyways was all that could be found in Tevinter, but instead of feeling the usual lust snaking its way through his body, an ice cold fear had gripped his heart. Something was very wrong.

"I can't stay for long," Felix whispered. "But I need your help. You have to go to Redcliffe."

"Redcliffe? Is that in the Free Marches?"

"Ferelden. My father..." Felix broke off, a pained expression overcoming his face. "My father is there. He is toying with magic that no mage in his right mind should be messing with. You need to get there. Just... just don't blame yourself when-- _if_ it goes bad. It's not your fault."

Dorian shook his head, the confusion evident in his face. "I don't understand. Speak plainly."

"I can't. I don't know how it will affect things. If you know then you might try to do something. I know you, Dorian, you would try and you can't."

"But didn't you just tell me that I needed to go to Redcliffe to do something?" Dorian demanded with a huff. "I have to do something, but you can't tell me what because then I might do it? That doesn't make any sense!"

Felix laughed. It sounded bitter and ancient. "I know, but I don't know how else to explain it. Maker, this is hard. Harder than all those fantasy novels you like to read would have you believe. I have to leave now, Dorian, and I can't tell you why. Goodbye, my friend."

He turned away and Dorian thought of all the things he had wanted to say to him these past few months. He feared he might never get the chance to say them. Such foolish little things, some of them: "Felix, you will be careful, won't you?" "Please don't get your feet wet. You take cold so easily." "Don't forget to wear a cloak." But there were other things, more important things Dorian had wanted to say, things he had wanted to read in his eyes, even if Felix did not speak them.

"Goodbye," Felix whispered very softly and walked to the edge of the alley, the pale light and morning mist bathing him in an eerie glow. Like a ghost who did not know he was already dead. Felix turned back and stared at him with a long, desperate look as if he wanted to carry away with him every detail of Dorian's face. Then he was gone, out into the street and turning a corner.

Dorian wasted no time hurrying back to Lady Herathinos's house. He needed to make preparations if he wanted to leave by tomorrow morning. When he arrived, one of the servants informed him that Magister Herathinos had taken her sister and niece to the baker's to choose a cake. He hoped Livia made them choke on it. He nodded his thanks, barely sparing the servant more than a glance, before barricading himself in his room. He immediately set to work scribbling a note to his father on a spare piece of parchment. Dorian wasn't sure exactly what it had said. He had been in such a hurry and his mind was elsewhere. He was pretty sure he had written something to the effect of, _So sorry, I can't marry Livia. I have to go to Ferelden with Felix to fight the Venatori. Give my regards to Mother when you see her_ … Which, now that he thought about it, sounded a little sarcastic. No matter, his father was used to it and he didn't have time to pen a well thought out letter anyway. Felix needed him.

"Cyrion! Cyrion!" Dorian called at the top of his voice as he frantically began pulling various sets of robes out of his wardrobe. The old elf shambled inside his room, his eyes sweeping over the clothes strewn about and the open trunk lying in the middle of his floor. Then he looked up, his large, sad eyes burrowing into Dorian's. "I need you to take a letter to my father. Don't leave it with Mother or anyone else, make sure it's placed directly in Father's hand."

"I take it you're leaving?"

Dorian huffed and held up several outfits for inspection. Which to take? Would he need a cloak? No, it was high summer and he doubted he would be staying for very long. "Tattle if you want. There is nothing Father can say that will change my mind."

"I'm glad."

 _That_ certainly caught Dorian's attention. Cyrion had always been his father's right hand, his support. The smile gracing the elf's face was bitter and angry; it hardly looked like a smile at all. "One day," Cyrion said. "Your father will regret this decision, just like I regret my own."

What decision did Cyrion regret? For the first time, Dorian realized just how little he knew about this man who had served his family faithfully for over ten years. To imagine him having a life before Tevinter was almost unthinkable.

"Where is this letter you want me to take?"

"It's here," said Dorian, grabbing the bit of parchment that he had left lying on his bureau. Cyrion took it from his fingers and bowed, shuffling from his bedroom in that slow, measured gait of his. As soon as Cyrion had left, Dorian threw himself back into his task. His trunk was filled with robes, but what else? Books! He didn't know what he would face in Redcliffe. Best to arm himself with as many encyclopedias as he could carry. _Flavius's Grimoire, The Somniari's Guide to the Fade, Brother Gentivi's Travels_ … There were too many! He couldn't decide. He would just have to take them all. Oh, he supposed he would need money as well. He still had some of the gold Aquinea had given him. What of food? Never he mind about that. It wasn't as though he was going to tramp about the countryside. He could buy whatever he needed.

By the time Dorian finished it was already late afternoon and the lid to his trunk strained to close. He had to lay flat across it to push it down far enough just to buckle the leather straps. Cyrion had not come back yet, and neither had Livia or Lady Herathinos. A discomforting silence had fallen over the ancient manor. Dorian leaned back against his trunk and breathed in the hot, still air. He felt strangely uneasy. How long did it take to sample cake? Livia and her aunt should have returned by now.

Then he heard them. The door opening, the soft creaking of the wood floors, the quiet murmurings of the servants. They were back and the anxiety that had somehow wormed its way inside of him was lifted from his chest. It was simply nerves. Except for a brief visit to Nevarra as a young child, Dorian had never been outside of Tevinter before, it was understable. He had been on edge since meeting Felix that morning, but there was nothing to worry about--

The door to his bedroom was blown off of its hinges and Dorian had to scramble to avoid being hit by a bolt of lightning. He felt the magic gather at his fingertips as he threw up a shield to protect him from the spellcaster's blasts, giving him enough time to reach for his own staff. So, it looked like Livia had decided to assassinate him after all. If only she had waited a couple of days; he would have been long gone from Minrathous and she wouldn't have had to waste so much money. Dorian swung his staff, using it to channel his own power and guide the line of fire towards the assassin. The man had barely dodged the attack before getting caught in a wave of heat as Dorian sent fireball after fireball crashing down upon the man's head. By the time the fight was over half of his room was blackened with soot and the man lay dead at his feet. Dorian covered his nose with his sleeve to keep from breathing in the acrid smoke and gingerly poked at man's hood with the tip of his staff. It was half-melted to his face but he managed to lift it far enough to get a good look at him. Dorian nearly dropped his staff as he stared at those familiar features. He knew him. He was one of his father's retainers, a Laetan.

For a moment Dorian could only stand there in shock before a cold rage overtook him. What was this? A kidnapping? Did his father plan to lock him up and force him to marry Livia by the tip of his staff? He should have expected Halward to pull something like this. He shouldn't have written that damned letter. Without even thinking Dorian hefted his staff and marched out of the house. He was not a child any longer. He would not be cowed. It didn't matter if he hadn't been presented to the Magisterium yet; let Halward call the guards if he wanted, Dorian would fight them off. He was going to do what he wanted and damn everyone to the Void and back if they tried to stop them.

A red, filmy haze had overtaken him. He did not feel the ache in his feet as he stormed halfway across the city to his father's house. He was ready for a fight; at this point, he welcomed one! Dorian avoided the grand front entrance and pulled himself over the garden wall like he used to when he was a young boy. The servants all looked up at him in bewilderment when he threw open the door to the kitchen and stormed across the threshold. "Master Dorian, what are you doing here?" The cook asked. "I thought you were staying with Miss Livia."

Dorian didn't bother to answer. He needed to have a talk with his father and nothing was going to distract him. He left the serving quarters and made his way towards his father's study. He didn't even think to look elsewhere. Halward was always in his study. He might as well live in it; the worn, leather couch sitting in the corner saw more use than his parents' marriage bed. Dorian briefly considered blasting the door off like the Laetan had done to his bedroom, but in the end Dorian simply pushed it open. Halward would undoubtedly make some comment about his pettiness and Dorian couldn't bear to hear it right then, otherwise he really would start a duel.

"Father, I need to-"

The words choked and died. A glyph had been drawn on the floor in red paint -- it was paint, Dorian was sure of it, it _had_ to be paint, it couldn't be anything else -- and in the middle of it lay Cyrion. His white, mangled face was turned toward him and Dorian could see a gash across his neck like a second mouth. The air was hot and the flies came in from the open window in swarms, fat lazy flies that hovered around the disfigured corpse like beggars come to feast.

"Dorian."

He jumped at the sound of his father's voice and turned to stare uncomprehendingly at the man. There was a knife in Halward's hand as he held them up, softly shushing as though Dorian was a spooked colt in need of a soft touch. "Dorian," he said again. "Come here. I'm sorry you had to see this. Gaius wasn't suppose to bring you up for another half hour. I didn't want to do this, but it's the only way. It will make you better. Happier. You'll forget about Felix and Rilienus and all of those other men. Come here."

Dorian wasn't quite sure what happened after that. He just saw the flames that had suddenly surrounded them and Halward raining down ice and wind in an attempt to douse the fire. He could hear the wood splinter and crack, warping beneath the fierce, undying heat. Everything was bathed in red, except for his father. He stood stark and black, wrapped in smoke like a shade.

Dorian turned and ran.


	6. Chapter 6

Dorian's legs were aflame, burning and tearing, and before he even realized what was happening his knees buckled and he collapsed against the wall of some seedy tavern. He leaned back and pressed his head against the cool stone; he felt feverish and there was a pounding in his temples that made it hard to think. He had to get out of Tevinter. He still had the money his mother had given him, but other than that, his staff, and the clothes on his back he didn't have much else. He couldn't go back to Livia's house to fetch his trunk; it was too great a risk. The city guards might already be waiting for him.

He had enough gold to buy passage on a ship. It would be dangerous. Qunari dreadnaughts regularly patrolled the Nocen Sea, but at least that would mean the price will be cheap. Cheap! Dorian had never given a thought to the cost of things before, but if he didn't want to starve before reaching Redcliffe he would need to use his money sparingly. Dorian pulled himself up; his legs felt weak and numb. They shook with every step he took. Even now he could make out the cloying smell of fresh blood. It was burned in his skin. Fresh beads of cold sweat broke out across his forehead as his heart thumped wildly inside his chest. He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to get to the docks. He would think about it tomorrow.

The docks were no place for an Altus, not that it had ever stopped him before. This was one of the few places in Minrathous that the Liberati had carved out as _theirs_ and they did not take kindly to interlopers. The painted whores glared at him from beneath heavy, kohl-rimmed lids. So long as he was there, asking the sailors about their ships, they would keep their distance and lose money in the process. One of the sailors finally directed him to a large merchant vessel. It was loading the last of its cargo and would sail within the next hour. The captain was reported to be a cruel taskmaster -- his sailors were easy to spot in the crowded bustle by the twisted and knotted lash marks that decorated their backs -- but there were no other ships sailing out that day. The longer he stayed, the more likely it was he would be found out.

The captain -- a short, barrel-chested fellow by the name of Tullio -- was an Antivan mercenary with delusions of nobility. By writ of Divine Joyous II nearly 600 years ago, no country under the auspices of the White Chantry was allowed to trade with the Tevinter Imperium. If Tevinter couldn't be conquered, then it would be cut off, alone and forgotten. That hardly stopped the Antivans, however. Considering that Antiva City was the heart of all trade, the Chantry was willing to overlook this. Otherwise, it would cripple not only Antiva, but the economies of so many countries reliant on Antiva City's continued, uninterrupted flow of goods and gold. Good money could be made in it, provided that the merchants were willing to brave the northern Qunari-infested waters. Captain Tullio had the air of a man who had come from nothing and had clawed his way up to the top until his fingernails were broken and bloody. His clothes were ostentatious. There were gold buckles on his boots and glass beads in his thick, black beard. He proudly showed off the gilt baubles that adorned his cabin, the row of leather-bound books he couldn't read, and the severed heads of Qunari sailors that he had taken as prizes in skirmishes along the coast. They were hung along the walls, their horned visages a gross parody of the trophies many noble lords and ladies took home whilst halla hunting in the country. Having an Altus on board was just one more thing for Captain Tullio to collect. Normally, he would charge 20 imperials per passenger-- a steep price, but this was a merchant vessel and not equipped to handle an extra mouth. "However," spoke Captain Tullio as he wrapped a meaty arm around Dorian's waist. "I am willing to ferry you for free. My bed is large enough for the two of us."

Dorian was not _that_ desperate and told the odious little man so in words too large and complex for him to properly understand, but the Antivan finally caught the gist of it when Dorian launched a fireball at his head. Which, incidentally, was how Dorian found himself bunked down on a thin cot in the hold between barrels of salted fish and short 30 imperials.

The voyage was difficult, but not for any reason that would have made the journey seem more romantic and adventurous. There were no storms to battle against, no raiding pirates looking to carry him off for ransom, no invading Qunari horde to fight. Instead, Dorian lay hunched over his cot for two weeks, desperately trying to keep down his rations of hardtack and water. His mother had taken him boating on the lakes and rivers near Qarinus, but this was the first time he was actually out on the sea. Those two weeks were a blur of constant nausea and terrifying nightmares. He had wondered if this was how Felix felt whenever his illness overtook him, only to immediately regret such thoughts and push them firmly from his mind. When the ship finally entered the mouth of the Minanter River, Dorian found to his relief that he was able to stand up without feeling the need to reach for a bucket. His lips were dry and cracked from dehydration, his face gaunt, and his complexion had taken on a pallid, sickly color. Dorian scowled at his reflection in the polished back of a tin plate as he tried to push the oily strands of his hair into some semblance of order. He was in desperate need of a shave and his clothes stank of vomit and sweat. He hardly looked anything like Dorian Pavus, heir to Magister Halward Pavus.

The ship docked at Starkhaven, and from there Captain Tullio's illicit goods would make their way across the Free Marches. Dorian crawled out of the ship's hold, blinking blearily in the light. It was colder here than in Tevinter, but the summer sun warmed his skin. He tilted his face towards the bright rays like a sunflower, soaking in the heat and light that he had sorely missed. "Not so pretty now, are you?" Captain Tullio mocked as Dorian finally pulled himself away and descended down the plank.

Despite the weakness in his muscles, Dorian landed lightly with his head held high. "And still out of your league," he replied, not bothering to pay the man any more attention than necessary. The first order of business was a bath and a good meal. Now that he could eat, his stomach felt cavernous and empty. Taverns and brothels were littered along the docks. The sort of places he had made his home in his younger, wilder days before Alexius took him in.

Dorian walked up the steps to one of the nicer-looking taverns, his fingers trailing down to the pouch of coins strapped to his belt when he stopped. A dawning realization fell upon him and he marveled at his own stupidity. This was the South and each gold imperial Aquinea had given him bore the face of the Archon. If he slapped that down on the bar he would be driven from the city, or worst-- have the Templars called on him. Hurriedly, he began to rip the gold rings from his fingers. The trinkets would get him by for now until he could think of something else. The woman behind the bar was missing several teeth and was more pimp than innkeeper. She gleefully took two rings from Dorian and called for one of her girls to set up a bath in the upstairs suite. Dorian had to practically throw the girl out of his room after bringing up the buckets of water he needed; she was very persistent about bathing him herself, all while helpfully trying to divest him of his clothes and, more importantly, his purse.

Once she was finally gone -- and the door firmly locked lest she or anyone else attempted to sneak in and rob him while he was otherwise occupied -- Dorian poured the frigid river water into the tub, heating it with the tip of his finger almost to the point of scalding. He doubted the water was very clean, but it soothed away the aches and pains that had accumulated from weeks of sleeping on nothing but a thin cot. Dorian sighed and sank low in the tub, letting the water wash away his worries. There was a tray on the bed piled high with cheese and bread and apples. A bottle of wine sat on the bureau, along with a razor. Music and laughter and the wild thumping of feet dancing across wood floors could be heard below. A little food, a hot bath, and a clean shave was all he needed to feel human again. Dorian peered into the cracked mirror as he trimmed the edges of his mustache, curling the ends so that he looked a bit more like his old self. He was still too pale and thin for his liking, but now that he was on dry land his color would return in due time. He just needed to find some way of getting to Ferelden. The quickest route would be to travel to Kirkwall and take ship, but Dorian was loathed to set sail again so soon. Not to mention the particular danger that city posed to mages. News of the Grand Cleric's assassination and subsequent annulment of the Circle had reached even Tevinter. It was a dangerous place for someone like him to find himself in. He supposed he could go around the Waking Sea and through Orlais. It would take months, though, time that he might not have. Regardless, he would need money either way, preferably in a currency that didn't say, "Hello! I'm a Tevinter Magister here to sacrifice you to a dragon!"

The bits of jewelry he had on him weren't enough for passage by sea or land. Besides, with the war, the markets would be flooded with similar trinkets. If he wanted to get to Redcliffe he would have to sell something substantially more expensive and rare. Dorian pulled his birthright out from underneath his robes. It was heavy with precious gems and he doubted that many such items had managed to find their way down South. Someone would pay a good deal for it, surely. He ignored the way his heart clenched at the sight of it. What did it matter if he sold it? He couldn't go back to his family, not after what his father did. He was no son of _his_. It didn't matter. It was a thing, unimportant.

He stuffed the amulet into his pocket and marched out of the tavern before he became unbearably sentimental. The innkeeper directed him to Market Street and Dorian carefully made his way through the white walled city of Starkhaven. It was a little gauche for his tastes, but charming all the same; the gleaming white stone and towering columns almost gave it a regal appearance, if a bit overwrought. There was something distinctly Orlesian in its architecture. The city seemed to have more in common with Val Royeaux than it did with its fellow Marcher city-states. It was surprising, for as far Dorian knew Starkhaven had never been a part of the Orlesian Empire. However, he could admit to himself -- if no one else -- that geography had never been his best subject. When he reached Market Street he saw to his surprise that most of the shops bore Orlesian names. The hawkers that crowded the walkway called out to him with lilting accents, a sharp contrast to the thick brogue of native Starkhaveners. He soon learned from locals that like Antiva City, Starkhaven was also a city of trade, the largest in the Free Marches. Merchants from Val Royeaux would travel along the Minanter River to Antiva, stopping in Starkhaven to sell and buy and restock.

Dorian stepped inside a jeweler's shop. There was a woman standing nervously in front of him, her eyes constantly straying to peer out the window. The masked man behind the desk grunted as he sifted through the baubles she had given him. "Cheap. Cheap. Cheap. What is this? Chasind? Who would want to buy a necklace made of twine and wolf teeth? Disgusting!"

"What about this?" The woman asked, lifting up a gold stirrup ring with a small garnet cabochon in its center. She sounded almost hysterical. "This ring is five hundred years old and bears the mark of Queen Asha. That is worth something!"

"I will give you ten royals for the ring and thirty silvers for the rest all together," said the man as he swept everything off of the desk and into a drawer. "It is the best I can offer."

"It isn't enough!"

"Not my problem. Now leave before I call the Templars."

The woman scooped up the handful coins and all but fled the store. Dorian tilted his head and sniffed at the ostentatious décor, affecting the appearance of a bored nobleman who saw little that was worthy of his time. He imagined he must have looked a great deal like his father then, but it would show the merchant that he would not be cowed or browbeaten as he done that poor woman.

The man just laughed at the display, however. "Another lost mage looking to get to Redcliffe. I know that look. Come, come, what have you brought Ponchard de Lieux today, eh? A pair of glass earrings, perhaps?"

Dorian pursed his lips at the man's perceptiveness and reached into his pocket for the amulet. "Not quite," he said as he laid it on the desk.

"Oh, now _this_ is interesting." Ponchard picked up his eyeglass as he examined the large and finely cut gems that studded his birthright. "Tevinter in origin and quite old. Did you loot this from your Circle's archives when you fled, or are you actually Vint?"

"The latter," Dorian reluctantly admitted. It was clear that Ponchard did not much care about his country of origin if he was willing to deal with rebel mages. Besides, this was probably his best chance at unloading what was left of his money. Carrying a purse filled with Tevinter coins would be inviting trouble. "Speaking of which, I would like to exchange my imperials for royals or crowns or whatever it is they use in Ferelden."

"I am afraid I cannot help you there," Ponchard said with a shrug. "There is nowhere in the South that would accept imperials as legal tender. Melting them down is hardly an option. Tevinter cuts its gold with copper."

Dorian could feel his face heat with indignation. "It does not!" He protested. "Tevinter gold is pure."

The man barked out a laugh. "Is that what they tell you there? The Imperium is like a snake devouring its own tail. The only trade it sees is with Antiva, who are as cutthroat as thieves because they know they can demand any price and the Magisters will be forced to pay it. It suffers constant raids from the Qunari. There is no one amongst its neighbors that it can count as an ally. It cannot afford to pay its working class and must rely on slave labor. Except if it cannot afford to pay a freeman's wages, then what hope does it have of feeding and clothing its slaves? So, it uses them and starves them until there is nothing left in them to give and they die. Then it gets new slaves to replace the old. Tevinter will keep turning itself inward until it hollows itself out." Dorian opened his mouth to protest, but could not find the words. For the first time in his life, rage had robbed him of speech. That quick wit that had often gotten him into trouble fled, and he could only gape in anger. His homeland had disappointed him in many ways, but he did not care to listen to some Orlesian Soporatus parrot whatever propaganda the White Divine had spoon fed him. Ponchard did not seem to be expecting a reply, he simply plucked his birthright from the desk and dropped it into the drawer with the rest. "I will give you thirty royals for the amulet. Do not try to bargain for more. It will be hard work getting the stones out without damaging them."

 _Get the stones out_? "Wait!" Dorian begged. The thought of his birthright being broken and plundered sent his heart racing with panic. "I changed my mind. I don't want to sell it."

"And what of the gold you so obviously need?"

"Then I will pawn it!" He spat. "I will return within a year to buy it back at double the price."

Ponchard smirked. "Of course, of course." There was hint of mockery in his tone. He didn't believe Dorian would ever come back for it. "One year at _triple_ the price."

"Fine, fine." Dorian ground his teeth as he filled out the ticket Ponchard handed to him, accidentally smudging the ink in his anger. The simpering, mocking smile never left Ponchard's face.

" _Au revoir_!" The merchant cried as Dorian stormed out of the little shop with a handful of gold. "Until we meet again!"

Dorian did not notice the heat pouring from his hands until the gold coins turned red and burned into his palms. " _Kaffas_!" He screamed, drawing several looks of surprise and distaste from the crowd around him as he hurriedly dropped the now slightly soft coins into his purse. Dorian examined the small circular burns that dotted his hands. How embarrassing. His emotions hadn't gotten the better of his magic since he was an apprentice. He needed to be more careful now that he was in the South. With a frown, Dorian pressed the red and tender flesh against his cool lips. It was beginning to sting a little. He should have paid more attention during his healing lessons. It had never really been his area of expertise. At least elfroot was cheap. He could pick up a jar of salve and a new set of robes and still be able to afford a ticket on the next ship out of Kirkwall.

He was about to head back to the tavern when he spotted the same woman from the shop. There were two men with her -- one of whom was an elf -- and a young girl, no more than eighteen, all with their heads shorn and wearing Chanter robes. The woman was close to tears, but her companions appeared remarkably serene and nonchalant. It was obvious she was a mage. The staff she was leaning against was too ornate for a walking stick and she had the look of a scholar. Hadn't Ponchard mentioned something about mages flocking to Redcliffe? Why would they be doing that? Did it have something to do with the Venatori, is that why Felix told him to go there? Whatever the reason, it didn't look like this little group would be able to afford the journey.

With a sigh, Dorian accepted the fact that he was about to do something very stupid.

"Excuse me," Dorian interrupted as he approached the group. "But are you going to Redcliffe? The shopkeeper mentioned it."

Suspicion immediately filled the woman's eyes, but one of the men next to her readily replied. "That is our intent." There was something strange about his tone. It was peaceful and unemotional and quiet. Almost inhuman. "The Queen of Ferelden has offered sanctuary to mages fleeing the fighting, but we do not yet have sufficient funds."

"Well, you're in luck!" Dorian smiled and tried to put as much good cheer in his voice as possible. "I am heading there myself! Perhaps if we pooled together our resources we could make the trip together? It would make travelling safer." So much for an extra set of robes, but the hopeful expression on the woman's face made him quickly forget such small comforts

The woman must have been tearing her hair out with worry, because the dam finally broke and tears began to stream down her cheeks. "Thank you, thank you," she sobbed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to cry like this. I just didn't know what I was going to do. Everyone at the Ansburg Circle had left already. They knew it was going to be hard and didn't want to waste any of their supplies on Tranquil. I stayed with them as long as I could, but eventually the Templars got so bad we had to leave. My name is Thea and this is Brom, Fendrel, and Alys."

"Tranquil?" Dorian asked, turning to look at the trio. Tevinter had its own Tranquil -- former political dissidents and the like -- but he had never met one before. Dorian had heard stories about the South, about how freely the Rite was used, but never had he really believed it to be true. It seemed almost too monstrous even for Southern barbarians, like fairy stories parents told their children. _Be good or the Templars will take you away and make you Tranquil_. "Are they... do..." Unable to find a way to politely phrase his question, Dorian trailed off.

"You may address any inquiries to us directly," Fendrel stated. "We are not mentally deficient nor do we require the use of a translator."

"I am sorry. I did not mean to offend."

"There is no need to apologize. We are not offended."

Thea wiped the tears from her cheeks and gave him a sad smile. "You wouldn't have much experience with Tranquil where you're from," she stated.

For a brief second Dorian's heart stopped and he wondered at how she might have guessed he was Tevinter. "What do you mean?" He demanded, unable to keep the bite from his voice.

Thea jumped a little, taken aback by his tone. "I'm sorry, I just assumed you were from the Dairsmuid Circle. I heard the Rite of Tranquility wasn't used there. You look Rivaini and it's obvious Trade isn't your native tongue. Also... well, you _are_ traveling alone." She said it so softly, like she was afraid he might break. "I didn't think there were any survivors."

"I don't wish to speak of it," he answered quickly. He had heard something about the Templars putting the Dairsmuid Circle to the sword. It would be a good cover should anyone ask questions. He could always feign being too traumatized to speak. Then his mind latched on to something else Thea had said. "What do you mean it's 'obvious' that my native language isn't Trade?" Dorian demanded. "I do _not_ have an accent."

Thea gave out a laugh. "No, but it's too proper, like you learned it out of a book. Perfect and over studied."

Over studied! How can anything be _over_ studied? The thought was ridiculous. Dorian decided to take it as a compliment and smiled charmingly at the girl, who teetered and giggled. He tried doing the same for the other three, but it was lost on the Tranquil. Their dreamy, placid expressions were beginning to unnerve him. He wondered if he would have been like them if his father had managed to complete the ritual, just an empty vessel waiting to be filled up with whatever Halward desired in a perfect son. Dorian quickly chastised himself for the errant thought. Now was not the time to think about it. "Well, now that we have the coin, what do you say we look into hitching a ride with the merchant caravans? I'm sure there will be at least one heading to Kirkwall soon."


	7. Chapter 7

The voyage across the Waking Sea was almost as terrible as Dorian had feared. He was ill for most of it, but unlike last time he didn't have Brom and Fendrel shoving potion after potion down his throat to keep his vitals up. It was embarrassing at first. These men were strangers and here they were ministering him like he was a child. An unruly, constantly vomiting child. Neither man seemed to care much about the smell of sickness that permeated their cabin. They moved through life completely unaffected by the goings-on around them. Their simple acceptance made his weakness a little more tolerable. Dorian did not think he could have borne it if he had been forced to bunk with Thea. She had the air of a healer -- and Dorian had no doubt she would have been nothing but professional in tending to him -- but she was aware in ways that Brom and Fendrel were not. It was easier this way. Dorian could almost convince himself that it had never happened. Sea sickness was for lesser mages, Dorian was a Pavus.

They were on ship for only three days before the vessel disembarked in Highever. He had been assured by Thea that Highever was the third largest city in Ferelden, and yet it hardly seemed as such. There were poor country villages in Tevinter with more life in them. The houses here were all made from clapboard and rough-hewn stone, chickens wandered freely down cobblestone lanes, and it was impossible to escape the stench of wet dog. Where was the theater? The artisans? The culture? Even the nobility were little better than peasants. Fereldan lords and ladies stomped down streets in mud-covered fur cloaks and wool trousers, ever surrounded by their flock of hounds. Entertainment could be found even in the Fields. What diversions did these Fereldans have other than the occasional chantry revival?

Dorian rubbed a little heat into his hands. He wished he had a cloak. It warmed up soon enough by late afternoon, but mornings were often brisk here in Ferelden. At this very moment, his fellow countrymen would be stripping down to their white shifts in a desperate attempt to stave off the heat, while here he was freezing to death. It would almost be amusing if Dorian wasn't so put out. He felt something cold and wet land on his bare shoulder. He looked down and saw in horrified fascination a few small snowflakes landing gently on his skin. It was Matrinalis. Autumn wouldn't arrive for at least another month. Why was it snowing in the middle of _Matrinalis_?

He wasn't one to question the Maker, but Dorian did wonder why He, in His infinite wisdom, felt the need to create such an abominable country as this.

Dorian pressed in closer to Brom, pushing himself to where he could fit comfortably underneath the awning and eyeing in the distance the angry green tear winding its way across the sky. He had heard rumors of the Breach, but to actually see it, to look up and know that the Veil had been ripped apart, opening up their world to another realm, a terrifying dream-like realm of magic and demons... He shivered, wishing to be somewhere safe and warm inside. They did not have enough coin to let rooms in the local inn -- the proprietor had taken one glance at their staffs and offered them an outrageous price for a single room, damn dog lord -- and no one seemed willing to bed them down in their homes. The Fereldans had grown tired of the constant influx of mages invading their towns and their never ending demands for food and shelter. There was an undercurrent hostility that made Dorian nervous, but so far no one had attacked. Queen Anora had opened Ferelden's borders to the mages and no one was willing to go against the Crown. But it did not keep these barbarians from making insinuations, whispers just loud enough for Dorian to hear, about how good it will be once the Templars returned and order was restored. Then everything would be back in their proper places. The 'proper place' for a mage being firmly beneath their heels. Dorian had spent the night underneath a bridge with the others just outside the city. They had all piled together and covered themselves with hay in an attempt to conserve heat and ward off the frost. While the Tranquil slipped unconscious the moment they closed their eyes, Dorian hadn't gotten more than an hour's worth of sleep. It felt too unsafe being out in the open where anyone could come upon them. His staff had remained gripped in his hand the entire night, lest any dog lord stumbling out from one of Highever's many alehouses got the bright idea of picking a fight.

Thea appeared around the corner and Dorian brightened considerably. Finally, some news, though by her pinched expression not all of it was good. As a native Fereldan, Thea thought it best if Dorian remained behind with the Tranquil while she went off in search of someone who could help them. His fine clothes and well-bred manner drew too much attention. Several people had spat at his feet and called him Orlesian. Poor Thea tried to correct them by stating that he was in fact _Rivaini_ , and Dorian was left to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at the absurdity of it all. "I've found someone willing to take us to Redcliffe. His name is Wilhelm and he's got a wagon big enough for all of us," she said as she approached.

"But...?" Dorian prompted.

"Fighting has broken out in the Hinterlands. The Templars are refusing to accept Queen Anora's decree and have invaded the countryside to force the mages into submission. There are some soldiers protecting the civilians, but they've all but given up trying to put an end to the fighting. Most have flat-out refused to engage. There are so many here that can count friends and family among both the Templars and mages. No one wants to fight one of their own."

Just once Dorian would like things to go smoothly. "We might as well paint targets on our backs," he grumbled. "The Templars will kill us the moment we set foot there."

Thea smiled shyly and chuckled to herself. "Not if we're already dead." At Dorian's puzzled look, Thea quickly clarified. "I've got an idea: we sew ourselves up inside burial shrouds. If Templars stop the wagon, Wilhelm will tell them that he's just taking corpses to Redcliffe Chantry for burning. Templars are a superstitious bunch. They're not going to poke around corpses for fear of accidentally waking the undead."

"How do you know this Wilhem's motives are altruistic? What if once we get there he just hands us off to the Templars? Oh, and we'll already be nicely wrapped up for them! How considerate of us to do the work ourselves. All they'll have to do is throw us on the pyre and off they'll be on their merry, mage-killing way." He might have overdone it on the sarcasm, but Dorian felt the situation warranted it.

Thea shrugged. "Do you have a better idea?"

No, he really didn't.

Wilhelm was a grumpy old man who was not only missing every hair on his head but also every tooth in his mouth. He was constantly muttering to himself about anything and everything: the old nag pulling the cart, the squeaky wagon wheel, kids these days, hoity-toity Orlesians ( _Rivaini_ , as Thea so helpfully reminded). He didn't bother to explain his reasons for helping them free of charge, and nobody asked just in case he thought them too much of a bother and decided to toss them out on the side of the road. Thankfully, the journey passed without incident. Dorian mostly spent his time trying to teach the Tranquil how to play Wicked Grace. He quickly found out that their inscrutable expressions made them cutthroat players. It was a good thing none of them had any money to gamble with, he would have lost it all. When they reached the edge of Lake Calenhad, Wilhelm pulled out a couple of burlap sacks from beneath his seat and helped sew them inside, leaving holes just large enough to provide them with air. It took them the entire day to reach Redcliffe. It was nerve-wracking. He could hear faint screams in the distance, but the burlap prevented him from seeing anything. It would have been easier to handle if he hadn't been blind and helpless. How could he protect them if he couldn't see? Wild thoughts raced around in his mind, his hateful imagination playing out all the ways this could go wrong in clarifying detail over and over again. Dorian had to press his hand against his mouth to keep from breathing too loud. The wagon never stopped though, just continued its slow, tedious passage across the Fereldan countryside. It gave him a small comfort.

Redcliffe was smaller than Highever, but seemed more vibrant. There were mages everywhere, so many that Dorian had a hard time spotting anyone who looked like they might be a local. He quickly learned that most of the villagers had been pushed out of their own homes by the red-robed Venatori. Dorian pulled up his hood as they passed two of his countrymen "helping" an old woman move out of her house by tossing her belongings into the street. Some of these Venatori might be people he knew from back home. He would have to be careful. Felix told him that Alexius was dabbling in dangerous magics, he didn't want to tip his mentor off that he was here.

"Maker, I haven't been here in, oh, ten years? Has it really been that long? Oh, that's the Gull and Lantern," Thea said, gesturing wildly to an old, run-down looking tavern. "I wonder if Lloyd still runs the place."

"Hopefully they'll still have some rooms available," Dorian muttered as he eyed the unwashed mass of refugees swarming around them. He did not want to spend another night outdoors.

The innkeeper was a surly fellow, but greeted them courteously enough. "I've got a room," he said. "If you've money or gold to barter. I'll let it to you two-" He nodded at Dorian and Thea. "But not them others. Magister Alexius doesn't want their kind here."

"How have we given offense?" Alys asked.

"Don't know, don't care. He just don't like Tranquil. Doesn't want them in the village at all."

"Well, I'm not going to stay if they can't," Thea said determinedly. There was a desire to appear brave, even if her hands shook. "We'll just... have to go someplace else. I heard that First Enchanter Vivienne has joined with the Inquisition. She's always been supportive and protective of the Tranquil. Maybe we could go there?"

"I would prefer not to leave the safety of the village," Brom said.

"Neither do I, but we've got no choice. Dorian?" Thea turned to him, her eyes pleading. His heart ached to help them. Thea wasn't a fighter and she hadn't the luxury of receiving the type of offensive training Dorian had gotten in Tevinter. There was little hope that she would be able to protect the Tranquil or herself if the Templars attacked. It would only be by the grace of the Maker if they managed to escape the Hinterlands unscathed.

"I'm sorry. I can't."

Thea nodded like she had already known the answer. She swallowed thickly. "Of course, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to presume. I'll write you when we reach Haven, alright?"

"I'd like that." If the smile didn't reach his eyes, Thea wasn't cruel enough to point it out. She turned away, the Tranquil trailing after her like lost puppies. Dorian knew he wouldn't see them again.

"So?" The innkeeper barked. "You want the room or not?"

Dorian placed two rings on the table and the innkeeper handed him the key.

* * *

The sounds of battle were a constant presence that hung over the village. Dorian would awake in the early morning hours to the faint sound of explosions, a low dim booming that might have passed for summer thunder if he was still in Tevinter. He could almost envision the arc of the fireball with each blast. The rebel mages were fighting hard against the ever encroaching Templars. Occasionally it was loud enough to be heard even above the rattle of traffic at noon. People tried not to listen to it, tried to talk, to laugh, to carry on their business -- just as though the Templars were not there -- but always ears were strained for the sound. The mages wore a preoccupied look, for no matter what occupied their hands, all were listening with their hearts leaping suddenly a hundred times a day. Was the booming louder? Or did they only think it was louder?

Panic lay just beneath the surface. Nerves which had been stretched tighter and tighter each day began to reach the breaking point. No one spoke of fears. That subject was taboo.

But Magister Alexius? Now that was a conversation people were nearly tripping over themselves to discuss. Everyone had an opinion about this new alliance. Dorian merely needed to only say the word "Tevinter" at the bar and he had ten people crowding his table to speak with him. There were many uneasy about the new alliance; some had already abandoned the Grand Enchanter to fight the Templars on their own in Witchwood. Those that stayed told him how Alexius had just appeared two days after the Conclave had been destroyed with offers of help and protection. That wasn't right. It should have been closer to two _months_ , not two days. He needed to talk to Felix. Dorian knew he was staying at Redcliffe Castle with his father and the rest of the Venatori that had accompanied Alexius, the only problem was getting a message to him. He had met one of the castle maids in the village square while she was out doing a little shopping. Valena, her name was. She agreed to deliver a letter to him in exchange for a ring-- the last bit of jewelry Dorian owned. That was three days ago and he's heard nothing since. Dorian sighed and leaned back in his chair, taking a long drink of the water-downed swill that passed for ale here. She had probably just hawked the ring and chucked the letter in a chamber pot. _Such terrible service_ , Dorian thought as he threw back the rest of his drink. He'll have to come up with something else. Perhaps he could sneak into the castle, but then how would he find Felix once he got inside? What if he ran into Alexius? There were too many unknown variables for Dorian's liking.

He was so lost in his own thoughts he didn't notice when the constant, ever present sounds of distant fighting trailed off. The tavern was still as nosy as ever, people chatting and drinking and kissing. Then one of the men stood up on the bench. "Oy! Quiet down, you dogs!" He barked. "Listen!"

Dorian sat up and strained his ears as the rest of the patrons quieted to a murmur. He tried to pinpoint what the old drunk was rambling on about, but he could make out nothing. That's when it hit him: _nothing_. All of the screaming, all of the sounds of crashing metal and the booming of magic were gone. Everything was still and silent. The sudden change set Dorian on edge.

The people quickly headed for the door, their drinks still in hand, as they made their way back to their rooms, or tents, or the huts they were currently squatting in. Most of those who had stayed loyal to the Grand Enchanter looked down on the rebel mages in Witchwood as power-hungry fools, but if something had happened, if the rogue Templars had finally driven them back then no one wanted to be around for the inevitable fallout.

Dorian climbed up the stairs to the little corner room that he had claimed as his own. Looking out the dirty window, he could see the streets were nearly empty. Even the Venatori who were usually out prowling about the village had disappeared. He doubted he would be able to sneak into the castle now. The guards would be on high alert, making it virtually impossible to break in undetected. There wasn't much else for him to do now but wait.

By late evening the first news came, but it was uncertain, contradictory, frightening, brought as it was by men wounded in the early hours of battle. Rebel mages began straggling into Redcliffe, singly and in groups, the less seriously wounded supporting those who limped and staggered. Soon a steady stream of them was established, making their painful way into town towards the tavern, their faces black from dust and soot, their wounds unbandaged, blood drying, flies swarming about them. They tottered up to the tavern door, sank down on the steps and croaked: "Water!"

Dorian rushed out to help the innkeeper and the few patrons lucky enough to afford rooms. They stood in the rapidly dying light with buckets of water and bandages, ladling drinks, binding wounds until the bandages gave out and even the torn linens and old shirts were exhausted. Some of these "soldiers" were just apprentices-- sixteen, fifteen years old. Dorian swore one of them had to have been only thirteen. Soon the floors of the tavern were covered with prostrate rebels, too tired to walk farther, too weak from wounds to move. These were loaded into a cart and driven to the castle, trip after trip until the old horse was lathered.

Dorian held wobbling heads so that parched lips might drink, poured buckets of water over dusty, feverish bodies and into open wounds that the rebels might enjoy a brief moment's relief. He leaned down to press a rag against a cut that was running down the whole length of a woman's face and asked: "What news? What has happened?"

Her lips twisted as she snarled, "The damned Inquisition. They're all over Witchwood. I saw the Herald. I watched her cut down my Maria."

"The Herald of Andraste?" Dorian asked. He had heard bits and pieces about the mysterious woman who had supposedly walked out of the Fade unscathed when the Conclave was destroyed, but nothing concrete other than the fact she was a Circle mage from Ostwick. "I thought she was one of us? Why is she attacking?"

"She's a Loyalist. First Enchanter Vivienne's little puppet. Fucking Templar pet." The woman spat on the ground, before groaning and clutching at her ribs.

The sultry heat of the afternoon faded as night came. The temperature dropped quickly and the winds picked up, whipping the tops of the trees into a frenzy. Dust clogged Dorian's nostrils and slithered down his throat. His dark samite robes, so freshly clean and starched that morning, were streaked with blood, dirt and sweat. Fatigue gave an unreal, nightmarish cast to the whole scene. The whole world seemed to have gone mad. How could the heir of House Pavus be standing in some backwater tavern miles away from home, pouring water over wounded men and women? So many were dying in front of his eyes, the mosquitoes and gnats swarming their bloody faces. This wasn't suppose to be his life. _Of course_ , Dorian thought wryly. _If everything had gone to plan I'd be married to Livia and drooling into a bib._

He found Brom on the bottom layer of a pile of twisted and wounded bodies lying in an ox cart, barely alive and with an axe blade embedded in his skull. How did he end up with these rebels? What about Thea and Fendrel and Alys? Were they even still alive? Dorian tried to get to him, but could not extricate Brom without disturbing six other men, so he let him go to the castle. Later, he heard he had died before a healer ever saw him and was burned in a mass pit that was quickly filled in.

By the time dawn broke over the horizon, the stream of rebels had dropped to a trickle. One or two might still be seen limping over the hill into the village, but for the most part everyone who could make it to Redcliffe had already done so. Everyone else was dead. Dorian slowly trudged upstairs, stepping over bodies and running his palm across his forehead. He pulled back his hand with a grimace when he realized that instead of wiping off the sweat and grime the only thing he accomplished was smearing blood across his face. The exodus from Redcliffe had begun. Many of the mages who had been wary of the Grand Enchanter's acceptance of Tevinter help now fled. They piled into wagons and stole mules and horses right out of the villagers' stables. Most of them carried only a carpetbag and a scanty lunch done up in a bandana handkerchief. Here and there, frightened enchanters carried silver treasures taken from their Circles under their arms and a portrait or two that had been salvaged in the first flight.

The number of refugees in Redcliffe dropped from one thousand to about seven hundred. Those that stayed spoke of the glory of Tevinter and how things will change once the Venatori gain control.

Madness.

Dorian pushed open the door to his room and was about to collapse on the bed when he noticed it was already occupied. Felix was sitting there, wearing the same rags that most of the villagers sported, and grinning up at him like he used to. "I got your letter," he said. "Sorry it took so long. Father doesn't like to let me out of his sight these days. I'd ask you what you were thinking coming here, but knowing you it undoubtedly involves trouble."

Dorian threw his arms around him in a hug. " _You_ were the one always getting me in trouble," he said with a laugh. There was a touch of hysteria to his voice, but Felix was kind enough not to mention it. Finally, Dorian pulled back. "I've heard some very strange things while staying here. The mages all tell me that Alexius arrived months ago. I know that cannot be true, so either these Southerners have never heard of a calendar or you're about to tell me something that I really, really don't want to hear."

"You know those theories you and my father were working on before you left..."

With a groan Dorian fell back against the bed. "They were just theories! We had never been able to get the spells to work, nevermind the ethical implications of whether we _should_. How did this happen?"

Felix shrugged. "I'm not sure exactly. He refuses to tell me anything important. Wants to protect me, he says. I know it requires an amulet, I've seen him use it."

"And you've been here the whole time? You never made a brief return to Minrathous for anything?"

"No, why do you ask?"

Dorian sat up. "Because at some point you are going to travel back in time to give me a warning."

"What was the warning?"

"Well, I don't know, you wouldn't tell me. Too afraid to alter the timeline. You just said that I needed to get to Redcliffe. We have to get that amulet. You must go back in time, or it will create a paradox."

"What will happen then?"

"How should I know?" Dorian asked. "Maybe it will destroy the world. Maybe it will split the universe into two separate parallel timelines. Maybe nothing will happen and we're all just crazy."

"And once I do go back, this time I'll tell you everything?"

"No! Didn't you listen to a word I just said? Don't tell me anything!"

"… Right."

Dorian sighed. "Now we just have to figure out what Alexius is doing."

"I know he's obsessed with the Herald. One of her messengers came to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona last night. Apparently the Grand Enchanter had arranged some sort of council with her, though she claims she knew nothing about it. The Herald will be arriving here tomorrow afternoon. Father has something planned, what exactly I'm not sure, but I know it isn't good."

"When she arrives, try to get her to come to the chantry. The Herald is trying to close the breach and it seems the Venatori might have something to do with that. We could help each other."

Felix nodded and clapped Dorian's shoulder. "I'm glad you're here. I've missed having you around."

For the first time in weeks the smile on Dorian's face was genuine. "Of course you have. I'd miss me too."


	8. Chapter 8

Dorian had everything planned out for when he was to be introduced to the Herald-- he had come up with a number of quips to counter any argument she might make, had his lines all memorized so that they sounded natural and off the cuff. His robes had been cleaned as best they could and he had lined his eyes with ashes applied with a small, charred stick. What he wouldn't give for proper kohl, but these Fereldans had no head for fashion. A clean beard free of bits of dried food was the height of their beauty regimen. Dorian was left to make do with what he had. Not that he would ever be so gauche as to admit to all this. Knowing that he needed to prep himself took the shine off his charm.

Now all he had to do was wait. Dorian leaned against the wall, keeping to the shadows, though there was little reason to. The chantry was deserted; almost all of the clerics had fled Redcliffe when the mages arrived. It had been looted of everything valuable that wasn't also nailed down and then promptly abandoned. Without a Revered Mother to lead them in Chant, few saw the need to come here. It was the perfect place for a secret rendezvous. _If_ the Herald decided to make an appearance, that is.

Dorian tilted his head back until it thumped softly against the column and sighed. Patience had never been one of his virtues. Who would have thought clandestine meetings could be so boring? As if the Maker had answered him, a strange shift in the light suddenly caught his eye. The wispy green rays twisted in the air, like an emerald catching the sun. He edged forward; he could feel the call of magic and the Fade pouring out from it. There was an urge to touch it, though he distantly recognized how terrible that idea was. And then it seemed to explode outwards, reaching out to twist the very air around him. Another rift. Like a hole in a robe, the threads separating the world from the Fade were slowly being pulled apart, the Breach being the first and largest. More rifts would appear so long as the Breach remained open. Dorian let loose a wave of fire as the first of the demons pulled itself free from the wisps. He watched in horrified fascination as the fireball slowed to a crawl the closer it got to the rift. Time was becoming distorted, no doubt due to Alexius's influence. This made things much more difficult.

The demon was under no such restraints and lunged for Dorian. He swung the bladed end of his staff out, catching it in the side, before bringing the head down with a _crack_! He dimly heard the door to the chantry open and spared a glance at the interloper. It was her. Evelyn Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste. "Good! You're finally here! Now help me close this, would you?" He called.

She wasn't anything at all like Dorian had imagined. There was nothing commanding about her presence, or even really _competent_. The lightning sprouting from the tip of her staff was careful and precise, but very weak. She hardly used the bladed end, and when she was finally forced to her swings were wild and lacking. Not trained for offense then, but that was hardly surprising. These Southern Circles were reluctant to arm their mages. If it wasn't for her electrical traps snapping around their enemies, caging them in one spot, she would have been nothing but a liability. As it was, the only reason why she wasn't a bloody smear was due in no small part to her companions.

Dorian swore as the Qunari's axe embedded itself into the demon he was fighting, just a hair's breath away from taking off Dorian's nose. "Your welcome," the beast said with a leer tugging at his lips. He was a tall man and powerfully built. Dorian thought he had never seen a man with such wide shoulders, so heavy with muscles. He had no sense of modesty, completely forgoing a shirt altogether so that he might brazenly display his musculature. He looked like a pirate or a mercenary, and his single eye was as bold and shameless as any pirate's appraising a gold coin to be scuttled or a maiden to be ravished. Dorian felt that he should be insulted by such a look and was annoyed with himself because he wasn't.

The Herald threw out her hand and he watched in amazement as the rift dissipated, the scattered light unfurling itself to drift serenely into the ether. "Fascinating. How does that work exactly?" He couldn't help but laugh at the Herald's sheepish look. "You don't even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes."

"Who are you?" She asked.

"Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?" He swept back into a bow, the old manners returning as though he had never left the glamor of Tevinter for a straw-stuffed mattress in a run-down tavern.

The Qunari's sharp gaze narrowed. "Watch yourself. The pretty ones are always the worst."

"Suspicious friends you have here," said Dorian, while turning to face the Herald once more with an amused smile pulling at the edges of his lips. The Qunari was right about one thing at least: he _was_ very pretty. "Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable-- as I'm sure you can imagine."

The Herald frowned, her hazel eyes darting around the chantry. She was a small woman, barely taller than an elf, and roughly thirty years of age. A mousy creature, soft and delicate, she seemed better suited to a life sequestered in some country chantry than out fighting on a battlefield. This was the fabled Herald of Andraste? The woman called to bring down the might of the Maker? Andraste had sense of humor, at least. "I was expecting Felix to be here."

"I'm sure he's on his way. He was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father."

"Alexius couldn't jump to Felix's side fast enough when he pretended to be faint. Is there something wrong with him?" The mousy look disappeared and in its place was the curious, clinical expression of a healer.

A surge of protectiveness rushed through Dorian on behalf of his friend. "He's had some lingering illness for months," he answered vaguely. "Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen, most likely."

"Are you the one who sent that note then?"

"I am. Someone had to warn you, after all. Look, you must know there's danger. That should be obvious even without the note. Let's start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself."

"He arranged it so he could arrive here just after the Divine died?"

"You catch on quick."

The woman standing at the Herald's right hand snorted delicately. She was a tall, imposing mage with a horned hennin that made her look both terrifying and beautiful. "Manipulating time itself? Many have attempted it over the ages, but never once succeeded," she scoffed.

"The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down." Dorian pointed out. "Soon there will be more like it, and they'll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it's unraveling the world."

The Herald frowned. "You're asking me to take a lot on faith."

"I _know_ what I'm talking about." Dorian bristled, as he did every time someone questioned his intelligence. "I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I don't understand is why he's doing it? Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few lackeys?"

"He didn't do it for them."

Dorian's heart leapt into his throat as Felix stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing those same yellow robes he had seen in Minrathous, pristine and new. He forced a smile on his face and said lightly, "Took you long enough. Is he getting suspicious?"

"No, but I shouldn't have played the illness card. I thought he'd be fussing over me all day." He turned to the Herald. "My father's joined a cult," he explained. "Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves Venatori. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he's done for them, he's done it to get to you."

The Herald looked down at her feet and she suddenly looked much older than just thirty. Then she straightened up, a mask shuttering over her face. "Do you have any suggestions?" She asked coolly, already wary of what they might say.

"You know you're his target," said Dorian. "Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage. I can't stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn't know I'm here, and I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you're ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I'll be in touch." He started to walk away, turning back just enough to throw a smirk over his shoulder at Felix. "And Felix? Try not to get yourself killed."

* * *

It was a week later before Dorian's limited patience came to an end. Haven was not far from Redcliffe and yet he had received no response from the Herald to his numerous letters regarding Alexius. There were rumors that she had gone to Therinfal Redoubt to negotiate with the Templars. Didn't she understand the danger Alexius posed? The Templars were like children who had been denied a toy and were now lashing out in their anger and own self-righteousness. Dorian had no doubt they would come to heel soon enough. The Chantry had managed them for centuries, surely the clerics could be left to deal with the unruly agitators. Alexius was the greater threat. Dorian packed what few possessions he had -- gifts from Felix; a new set of robes, some money, and kohl, Maker bless him -- into a knapsack. He needed to get to Haven -- he had already stayed longer than he should have -- he had to convince the Herald to come with him and stop Alexius. And if she didn't... well, Dorian would just have to think of something else.

Since the rebel mages were cleared from Witchwood and the rogue Templars were recalled to Therinfal Redoubt, Redcliffe had grown ominously still. It was a hideous place like a plague-stricken hospital, so dreadfully quiet after the din of battle. There had been stimulation in the noise and danger. There was only horror in the quiet that followed. The town seemed haunted with fear and uncertainty and memories. Dorian didn't understand it; the Templars had left the Hinterlands, the immediate danger had passed, why were the mages so afraid? The enchanters' faces all looked pinched and harried, which made the younger mages tense with worry. They knew something, but refused to speak, taking counsel only with the Grand Enchanter and the Venatori. Something was about to happen, and Dorian could only hope that he returned with the Herald in time to stop it.

Shouting filtered up from the street and Dorian paused in his packing to take a peek out the window. He saw the Venatori barking orders at the mages, helping them pack and load up their belongings across the backs of what few horses and mules remained. There was a steady trickle of mages already marching down the thoroughfare, red hoods in front. Like the Pied Piper, the Venatori were leading the mages out of Redcliffe to only Maker knew where. What was going on? Where were they going? Before Dorian could do anything, the door to his room was thrown open and Felix was there, pulling at his arm. "We have to leave," he said, his voice taut and anxious. His face was unnaturally pallid, sweat pricked his forehead, and he was leaning heavily on his staff. The yellow robes he wore were covered in dirt and starting to fray at the ends. Dorian wondered what had happened; it looked like he had been in a duel! Surely that was not the case, what with Felix's constitution and poor casting abilities. Without thinking Dorian lifted his hand and pressed it against his cheek. He felt feverish. Felix irritably pushed him away and picked up the knapsack. "Now. The Venatori are taking the mages to meet someone they call the Elder One. They..." His voice hitched and for one terrifying moment Dorian was afraid he was about to cry, but then his face twisted into a snarl. "We're going. Come on."

Felix shoved the knapsack into his arms and began to pull him down the stairs before he could protest. Dorian could see the Venatori standing just outside the tavern through the wide windows, and with a quick jerk Felix pushed him into the kitchens just in time to avoid being seen. The scullery maid looked up in bewilderment, but Dorian put a finger to his lips. She frowned, but kept silent. When the door to the tavern swung open, banging loud enough against the wall for Dorian and Felix to hear, the little elven maid jumped. "The Inquisition has declared war on the mages." Dorian heard the Venatori shout to the crowded barroom from behind the door. "This so-called 'Herald' has turned good Queen Anora against you. Her armies are marching towards Redcliffe as we speak. Mages, we must flee. The Venatori will protect you and provide you with safe passage, but we must hurry. Gather only what you can carry and enough food to last several days. We must not delay."

"Is there another way out?" Felix mouthed to the girl. She nodded and motioned for them to follow her through a trap door leading down into an earthen cellar.

"This is where the deliverymen unload the groceries," she whispered, pointing to a ladder leading up to another trap door on the far side of the cellar. "It opens up to an alleyway, large enough for a horse and cart. But it's locked and I haven't a key." She picked up the heavy chains that bound the door shut, rattling them slightly.

"It's not locked for us." Dorian lifted his staff and pressed it against the lock, freezing the metal until it became so brittle that one strike with his blade shattered it. The chains slipped free from the handles. Dorian climbed the ladder and threw the doors open, wincing slightly at the loud thump that echoed down the alley when they landed against the cobblestone. Dorian poked his head out and saw that it was thankfully deserted. He pulled himself onto the street, before turning around and reaching out to help Felix and the girl scramble up.

"Go home and stay hidden until the Venatori are gone," Felix told her before taking hold of Dorian once more. He realized that it was as much about having something for Felix to lean on as it was to guide him through the deserted streets. They scurried through the town, ducking behind walls and into buildings whenever they spotted one of the Venatori prowling around in search of any lingering mages they might have missed. They took shelter in an old, ruined windmill just outside of town. Dorian dragged brush and limbs over to cover the entrance to their hiding place and settled down next to Felix to watch the mages being herded like cattle to slaughter.

Dorian leaned close to his friend, felt him shiver, but from fever or fear he wasn't sure. "What happened?" He asked quietly.

"They killed Father."

The air rushed from his lungs like he had been punched. "What?" He asked, his voice cracking. "Why? He was one of them!"

"He couldn't get the spells to work properly. This Elder One wanted to go back in time, to do what I'm not sure, but Father couldn't do it. Then we received news that something had happened at Therinfal Redoubt. I don't know the particulars, but it's left the Venatori in a frenzy. They told Father that he had outlived his usefulness and then they... they just killed him." Felix looked down, sucking in big, gulping breaths as he tried to regain control of his emotions. He reached into his robes and pulled out Alexius's amulet. "I managed to get this before I escaped though. Do you think you can use it to send me back?"

Dorian took it with a frown. "Possibly. You do understand... you won't be able to save him."

"I know. Paradoxes and all that. I'll go back and warn you and then... I don't know. Stay out of my way, I guess. Don't want to run into myself, that would be weird." He attempted to smile, but it was hollow and quickly slipped from his face. Dorian wanted to reach out and hold him, to give him some measure of comfort no matter how small or insignificant. He still loved this stupid, wonderful, kind man. But Felix didn't want him and Dorian settled for pressing against his shoulder, letting the tired mage sag against him.

The next morning, Dorian awoke with a suffocating sense of dread upon him. He thought, dulled with sleep: _What was it that I was worrying about when I went to bed last night? Oh, the Venatori!_ He sat up hastily, rubbing his eyes, and looked around. He was lying on the hard ground, his dark skin dusted with morning dew, still safely hidden in the shadow of the windmill. The road below him lay silent. No wagons creaked by. No mages raised the red dust with their tramping feet. He looked out and saw how quiet the town had become. Many of the stores and houses were locked and boarded up.

He turned to push at Felix's shoulder. "Wake up, it's safe. The Venatori have left." Felix had pressed up against his back during the night, burying his face in the warmth Dorian had given off. He moaned weakly at Dorian's prodding and with a worried frown he laid his palm against Felix's forehead. He was hot, burning, and the veins running down his neck and cheeks looked dark and bruised. It was the Blight. "Get up, Felix. Get off the ground," Dorian ordered, reaching down to physically haul Felix to his feet when the man did nothing but wave his arms around weakly. Dorian struggled to get his legs under him while supporting his friend, wrapping one arm around Felix's waist and the other grasping his hand to pull it over his shoulder. Felix opened his eyes and tried to move his feet as Dorian did, but he stumbled and tripped and it took them nearly an hour before they climbed down the slope and into the village proper. He stopped at the first house they came to and kicked at the boards that had been nailed across the door, but they refused to budge. Dorian swore and pushed his mana down to send sparks flying from his feet instead of his hands, finally burning away the boards and then freezing the flames before they consumed the rest of the house. Felix let loose a weak chuckle at his antics and Dorian couldn't help but feel lighter at the sound. "Find me amusing, do you?" He quipped. "I'll have you know Foot Magic is a very respectable school of study in some Circles." He dragged Felix inside and helped him lie down on the bed, covering him with a quilt he found in a spare cupboard. "There is a healer at the Crossroads. It's only three miles from here. I will be back as soon as I can."

Felix was already asleep before Dorian had even finished speaking. Dorian looked over him one last time before taking off down the road at a run, praying as he had never done before. No formal Chant now but the same words over and over: "Bride of the Maker, don't let him die! I'll be so good if you don't let him die! Please, don't let him die!"

As empty as Redcliffe was, the Crossroads was crowded with people who rushed here and there with unseeing eyes, jammed with wagons, ox carts, and carriages loaded with wounded. A roaring sound like the breaking of surf rose from the crowd. He pushed his way swiftly through the throng of people, past the packed, hysterical mob surging through the open glen. Through the tangle of bodies and the clouds of dirt, he could see Inquisition scouts turned stretcher bearers bending, lifting, hurrying. Thank the Maker, he'd find the healer soon. As he rounded the tents and makeshift huts he halted, appalled by what he saw.

Lying on the pitiless ground, shoulder to shoulder, head to feet, were over a hundred wounded men and women. Some lay stiff and still but many writhed under the morning sun, moaning. Everywhere swarms of flies hovered over them, crawling and buzzing in their faces, everywhere was blood, dirty bandages, groans, screamed curses of pain. The smell of sweat, of blood, of unwashed bodies and excrement rose up until the fetid stench almost had him retching. The dozen or so scouts hurrying here and there among the prostrate forms frequently stepped on the wounded, so thickly packed were the rows. Dorian braced his shoulders and went down among them, straining his eyes among the upright figures to find the elven healer he had seen traveling between Redcliffe and the Crossroads almost daily. He picked his way among the wounded, felt feverish hands pluck at his robes and heard voices croak: "Ser-- water! Please, ser, water! For Andraste's sake, water!"

Dorian pulled his robes from grasping hands and stepped over the living and the dead alike, over corpses who lay dull eyed with hands clutched to bellies where dried blood had glued torn shirts to wounds, over people who moaned pitifully up at him. He finally spotted the healer. Her skirt was as red as a butcher's and her face had the expression of a woman drunk with fatigue and impotent rage. But her voice was calm and decisive as she called to him. "The Inquisition sent you? Good, I can use every pair of hands."

For a moment he stared at her in bewilderment, dropping his robes in dismay. They fell over the dirty face of a wounded man who feebly turned his head to escape the smothering folds. What did the healer mean? "I need you to come with me," he said, his voice cracking. "My friend is very sick."

The elf looked at him as if his words did not register for a moment. "Sick? Great Maker!" thundered the healer and her face was suddenly contorted with hate and rage. "Are you crazy? I can't leave these people, not for just one person."

"He might die if you don't come!"

The healer shook her head and spoke as though she hardly heard him, hardly knew what she said. "Die? Yes they'll all die-- all these people. No bandages, no salves, no elfroot. Oh, Maker, for some elfroot! Just a little elfroot for the worst ones. Maker damn those Vints! And damn the mages too!"

"Give 'em shit, Doc!" said a wounded farmer lying next to her feet.

"What do I do then?" He asked.

"What are his symptoms? He got a fever? Fevers are good for burning away sickness, but if he gets too hot you need to cool him down. You're a mage, I can tell. That should be easy for you. If you haven't been sent by the Inquisition, then you need to watch yourself. Those red-robed Vints came through here last night with them mages from Redcliffe, swept through the whole countryside, burning houses and crops."

"What? Why?" He demanded.

The healer shrugged. "How should I know? I heard some of those Inquisition scouts talking though. They think it might be a diversionary tactic, whatever that means. Nobody here is going to take kindly to you, so be careful."

She turned as one of the Inquisition scouts touched her arm and began firing directions at him. Dorian turned away, for the healer had forgotten him. He picked his way rapidly through the wounded and back to the main road. The healer wasn't coming. He would have to tend to Felix himself. Oh, why hadn't he ever bothered to study healing? Dorian cursed himself as he ran. The cool morning soon gave away to the heat of the afternoon. His robes were soaking wet from perspiration and sticking to him by the time he made it back to Redcliffe. He leaned against the house for a moment, breathless and dizzy and sick to his stomach. If only he could get one deep breath, way down in his abdomen. If his heart would only stop bumping and drumming and cavorting. If there was only someone in this mad place to whom he could turn.

He heard moaning drifting through the open window and took a deep, steadying breath. There was no one, he was on his own. He had come this far without needing his parents or slaves to do things for him, to look after him, shelter and protect and spoil him. If he could escape Tevinter, survive the sea, and journey through the Free Marches to Ferelden then surely he could help Felix in his hour of need. For a moment, Dorian stood still at the threshold, listening to the low groaning that had begun again. As he stood there it felt as though a yoke had descended heavily upon his neck and with each step he took the load that was harnessed to it grew heavier and heavier.

There would never again be an afternoon as long as this one, or as hot, as though to make up for Ferelden's cold mornings and even colder nights. The sun was high and not a breath of air stirred the leaves. Dorian had stripped Felix of his robes and sponged his face and chest in silence. The shade of the room had drawn in lazy, indolent flies and they swarmed Felix despite Dorian's attempt to wave them off. They landed on his moist face, crawled on clammy feet and legs and made him jerk and cry out in his sleep. Twilight had fallen by the time Felix's fever broke and Dorian thanked the Maker for small mercies. His friend was still and quiet on the bed. Dorian shivered; he looked like a corpse in the candlelight.

A loud rumbling interrupted the silence. Dorian remembered that he had not eaten all day and now that Felix was no longer feverish his stomach protested this loudly. He pulled himself away and began poking through various cupboards, hoping that something had been left behind in the Venatori's haste to flee Redcliffe. His legs were leaden, trembling with fatigue and strain, and he shivered with cold from the clammy sweat that soaked his body. Nothing, there was nothing. The mages had picked this place clean. With a trembling hand Dorian unbuckled his robes halfway down his chest and collapsed on the floor. What were they to do now?

It took him a few moments to realize he could hear someone speaking just outside and even longer to recognize the voice. The Qunari! Had the Herald finally returned to Redcliffe? Some reserve of strength he did not know he possessed pushed him to his feet and he flung open the door. The Qunari looked down with surprise and curiosity at Dorian's sudden appearance, one hand still raised to knock. A motley crew stood behind him, armed to the teeth, but the Herald was not numbered among them. "What are you doing here?" Dorian demanded.

Surprise was soon replaced with amusement. "Could say the same about you, Vint," he answered. "Redcliffe abandoned, the mages suddenly gone, farms torched... Since me and my boys were in the area, the Boss sent us to check it out. Saw the candle, thought it was a villager. Didn't expect to find _you_."

Dorian tuned out the man's rambling as soon as his eyes fell upon what must have been the company healer. He was a dark-skinned fellow with a bag full of herbs and poultices strapped across his shoulder and a sewing kit hanging from his belt. Dorian pushed past the Qunari, his shoulder roughly bumping into the large silver chest which let out a half-grunt, half-laugh. "Are you a healer?" He asked the man. "Please, I need your help, my friend is ill."

The healer turned to look to the Qunari, who nodded in assent. He followed Dorian inside, the Qunari trailing after them both. The healer took one look at Felix and balked. "He's got the Blight?"

"He's not contagious," Dorian snapped. "The best healers in Minrathous saw to that."

"It doesn't matter. That's a death sentence."

"That doesn't mean he has to die now!" Dorian all but screamed. "Can you do something or not?"

That amused smirk finally slid from the Qunari's face as he regarded him. "Stitches?" He asked, turning his single eye back to the healer.

The man called Stitches sighed as he examined the patient. "It looks like the worse of it has passed. If he was going to die tonight he'd have done it already. He's hardy, I'll give him that. I can give you a few potions, should make his recovery easier. Well, 'recovery' being relative, of course."

Dorian sucked in a deep breath and took the potions with a grateful smile. "You really shouldn't stick around," the Qunari said. "Now that the mages are gone, the villagers will be coming back and looking for blood. The Vints did a lot of damage on their way out. You'll be a prime target. Everything about you screams 'mage.'"

"I'm not leaving without Felix."

The Qunari shook his head. "Knew you were too pretty to be anything but trouble."

"That hardly sounds like a compliment."

"It isn't. You always expect compliments from men?"

"Only the ones that aren't savages."

He laughed. "Such vanity. At least you're frank about it." Then the Qunari turned to his healer, nodding towards Felix's prone form. "Is it safe for him to travel?"

Stitches just shrugged. "He's got the Blight. It isn't safe for him to do anything. But I'm sure a rough road will be better for his health than a pitchfork through the chest."

The Qunari nodded and stepped back outside. "Krem!" He bellowed. "You and the rest of the Chargers are going to check out the castle on your own."

"Oh? And what'll you be doing?" Cried one of the men. His accent betrayed him as a Tevinter. That was certainly surprising.

"Rescuing the damsels, of course!" He laughed. Dorian felt his face and hands grow hot with rage, the fire sparking at his fingertips. The men all laughed and several of the mercenaries pretended to swoon; one Dalish woman caught a burly looking dwarf and started to flutter her scarf across his face in an attempt to 'fan' him, but the tickling fabric only made him giggle. "I'm going to go find a horse," the Qunari said, turning back to Dorian. "Pack lightly and be ready to go when I get back. I'll see you safely out of the Hinterlands."

Dorian went back inside the house, slamming the door harder than necessary. He set to work toweling off the sweat and cool water that had gathered on Felix's skin and pulling his robes back on. There wasn't much to pack. Everything he owned was in his knapsack. After he tended to Felix, Dorian was left sitting there, just watching him breathe in and out. Why didn't the Qunari hurry? Anxiety stabbed at his insides; he felt weak and helpless sitting there, wringing his hands. Felix's safety, as well as his own, lay in the hands of a Qunari and wasn't that funny? Dorian couldn't help but wonder if the man would abandon them. They were Tevinter, his natural enemies. Why should he help them? But then, far up the road, he heard the protesting screech of unoiled axles and the slow uncertain plodding of hooves. He picked up the candle and rushed out to meet the man. The Qunari climbed down from the seat of a small wagon and gave a little bow. "Your carriage, Magister Pavus," he said.

"If you make any jokes, I will set you on fire."

The Qunari laughed as he entered the house, hunching to avoid the lintel. "Don't worry, I won't hurt him," he said as he reached down to gently scoop up Felix in his large arms and carry him outside, where he laid him down in the wagon. He was as tender and careful as a mother with her babe. Dorian never would have expected that hands such as those could be so soft and kind.

The wagon was very small and the boards about the sides very low. The wheels leaned inward as if their first revolution would make them come off. Dorian took one look at the horse and his heart sank. He was a small emaciated animal and he stood with his head dispiritedly low, almost between his forelegs. His back was raw with sores and harness galls and he breathed as no sound horse should. Still, it was better than nothing. Dorian set the candle on the ground and climbed up to sit next to Felix's head, directly behind the Qunari on the box.

The Qunari tugged the horse's slow feet southward and the wobbling wagon jounced into the lane with a violence that wrenched an abruptly stifled moan from Felix. The candle on the sidewalk burned on, making a tiny yellow circle of light which grew smaller and smaller as they moved away. Dark trees interlaced above their heads, enveloping the street in darkness and gloom. The narrow road was a dim tunnel, but faintly through the thick leafy ceiling brief glimpses of the moon could be seen. "I'm called the Iron Bull, by the way," the Qunari said. "Keep a look out on my left. If you see anyone, don't ask questions, just shoot them with your staff. It isn't much of a horse, but I went through an awful lot to steal it and I'd rather not have some bandit snitch it out from under me."

Despite his protests to the contrary, it seemed to Dorian that the Iron Bull would like nothing better than to come across a couple of bandits. In the light of the moon, the Qunari's dark profile stood out as clearly as the head on an ancient coin. His single eye gleamed with exhiliration and excitement. He took pleasure in the adventure and Dorian thought he might welcome the chance to fight. Dorian, however, was grateful that neither bandits nor villagers nor any lingering Venatori accosted them during their journey. With Felix as sick as he was, he doubted he would have survived such a battle. As the trees began to thin, the Iron Bull pulled on the reigns, bringing the horse to a stop. "We're out of the Hinterlands now and on the main road to Honnleath. If you keep up this pace through the night, you should reach the village by morning. You'll be able to find some help there; they haven't had any trouble with mages, so they won't have cause to harm you none."

Dorian scrambled onto the seat as Iron Bull climbed off. "What are you going to do?"

"Head back to the village, catch up with my men. Then, from there, back to Haven and the Inquisition." Iron Bull cocked his head and flashed him a grin. "So, doesn't the dashing hero get a goodbye kiss?"

Dorian rolled his eyes and urged the horse forward, the wagon wheels kicking up dust as they spun and leaving the Qunari coughing in his wake.


	9. Chapter 9

The bright glare of morning sunlight streaming through the trees overhead awakened Dorian. For a moment, stiffened by the cramped position in which he had slept, he could not remember where he was. Then it came rushing back to him. He popped up to a sitting position and looked hastily all around. No bandits, no Venatori, no dog lords seeking revenge. Their hiding place had not been discovered in the night. He recalled the endless ride, the black road full of ruts and boulders along which they jolted, the deep gullies on either side into which the wagon sometimes slipped, the desperate strength which he had pushed the wheels out of muds and holes. He had pulled off the main road and drove through a plowed field for a mile when he spotted a campfire. They might have been kindly shepherds with food to offer, or they might have been outlaws. Either way, Dorian could not risk it. Not with the condition Felix was in. Once they were far enough away that the fire looked nothing more than a pinprick, the horse sank in the mud and refused to move.

So he had unharnessed him and crawled, sodden with fatigue and hunger, into the back of the wagon and stretched his aching legs. He had a faint memory of lying down next to Felix -- just for a moment, to rest his tired muscles -- and gone to sleep the moment his head fell against the wood.

Now it was morning and the world was still and serene. It felt almost empty; there was not a soul in sight anywhere. Dorian was hungry and dry with thirst, aching and cramped and filled with wonder that he -- Dorian Pavus, who could never rest well except on the softest of feather beds -- slept hard and deep like a peasant on rough wood planks.

Blinking in the sunlight, his eyes fell on Felix and he gasped, horrified. Felix lay so still and white Dorian thought he must be dead. He looked dead. He looked like a dead, old man with his ravaged face and dark bruises blooming around his mouth and down his neck. Then Dorian saw with relief the faint rise and fall of his shallow breathing and knew that Felix had survived the night.

They needed to get on their way, but first they must find some food or water, especially water. Dorian's mouth was parched and his lips cracked and his stomach was long past rumbling and settled into quiet, aching acceptance. He tried to smooth back his untidy hair, his face and body dirty and sticky from dried sweat and mud. He had never felt more acutely tired and sore in all his life.

He looked down at Felix and saw that his dark eyes were opened. They were sick eyes, fever bright, and dark baggy circles were beneath them. But he was awake, thank the Maker he was awake. Felix opened cracking lips and whispered appealingly: "Water."

And then Dorian thought of the horse. Maker, suppose the horse had died in the night! He had seemed ready to die when he unharnessed him. He climbed down and ran around the wagon and saw him lying on his side. If he was dead, Dorian would curse the Maker and die too. Somebody in the Chant had done just that thing: cursed the Maker and died. He knew just how that person felt. But the horse was alive-- breathing heavily, sick eyes half closed, but alive. Well, some water would help him too.

He _was_ in a field. Farmers needed water to tend to their crops, so there must be a well nearby. Dorian started off in search, poking around half-rotten wooden sheds and collapsed barns. Between a smokehouse and the stone foundations of a building long gone, he found the well. He pulled at the rope, and when the bucket of cool sparkling water appeared out of the dark depths, Dorian tilted it to his lips and drank with loud sucking noises, spilling half of it all over himself.

He filled it again and brought it back to the wagon. He tried to help Felix as best he could but most of it splashed out, dripping between the planks. Felix seemed better for it, though, and he managed to slowly, achingly pull himself up into a sitting position. Dorian fetched another bucket and left it for the horse to drink while he went to look for something to eat.

His search was futile until he managed to find a few apples in an orchard that had been thoroughly picked over. There were none on the trees and those he found on the ground were mostly rotten. He filled his robes with the best of them and found his way back to the wagon where he gave Felix half before tearing into his share. He didn't care about the soggy texture, the way the fleshy bits crumbled in his mouth. He barely tasted it. Now that he had something in his stomach, his hunger roared back to life and he found himself more ravenous than before. Felix picked at his food and Dorian couldn't help but longingly stare at his half-eaten share. He shook his head and went back to the horse. He wasn't so desperate that he was going to steal food from a sick man. The horse was on his feet now but the water did not seem to have refreshed him much. He looked far worse in the daylight than he had the night before. His hip bones stood out like an old cow's, his ribs showed like a washboard and his legs were a mass of stores. Dorian shrank from touching him as he harnessed him. When he slipped the bit into his mouth, he saw that he was practically toothless. As old as the hills! Why couldn't the Iron Bull have stolen a _good_ horse?

He mounted the seat and slapped the reigns across his back. The horse wheezed and started, but he trotted so slowly as Dorian turned him into the road. He could walk faster than this horse. Dorian muttered several curses in Tevene as the horse shambled down the rough trail. They couldn't be more than fifteen miles from the village, but at the rate this old nag traveled it would take all day, for he would have to stop frequently to rest him. _Reach the village by morning_ , Dorian huffed as he thought sourly, remembering the words the Iron Bull had told him. Maybe with a proper beast to pull them. He should have just hitched the Qunari to the wagon.

The exhausted horse shambled on, dragging his feet, stumbling on small rocks and swaying as if ready to fall to his knees. But, as twilight came, they at last entered the final lap of their long journey. Dorian could see the outline of distant houses nestled within a valley between two large mountains. Honnleath had become the starting point for many travelers undertaking the pilgrimage through the Frostback Mountains to Haven, where the Temple of Sacred Ashes once stood and now the headquarters for the Inquisition. The flat fields slowly gave way to smooth, rolling hills and Dorian's heart sank. The decrepit beast would never make the climb. The slope seemed so slight, so gradual, but with their heavy load a mountain might as well lay between them and Honnleath.

Wearily, Dorian dismounted and took the animal by the bridle. He pulled him into a reluctant start, tugging and pushing and together they made the journey inch by inch. How slowly the horse moved! The moisture from his slobbering mouth dripped down upon his hand. Through his mind ran a few words of an old country tune he had heard while staying at the Gull and Lantern, though he could not recall the rest: _Just a few more steps_ , hummed his brain over and over. _Just a few more steps to tote the weary load._ They at last topped the final rise and before them lay the sprawling, clapboard village of Honnleath. The villagers must have spotted his slow progress for a farmer in a straw hat rode up on a sleek chestnut mare to greet them. "Hullo!" He called. "What's this? Another pilgrim?"

Dorian shook his head. "I'm seeking shelter. My friend is sick."

The man peered around the cart and took in Felix's pale face and bleary eyes. "The inn is full," the farmer said apologetically. "Lots of folks coming through to join up with that Inquisition. I've got a spare room you and your friend can bed down in. Here, tie that nag to the back and I'll hitch my horse to your wagon."

Dorian unhitched the horse and did as the farmer bade, tugging the nag around to the back of the wagon. The man, whose name was Gerald, got up on the seat and drove the wagon himself. It took less than thirty minutes to reach Gerald's farm-- had the nag still been pulling the load, it probably would have been closer to two hours. Relief sagged through Dorian at the thought of being able to rest. It did not last, however. Thoughts of Felix's prolonged suffering spurred Dorian into action. "He must be carried. He can't walk."

Gerald nodded as he got off the seat and called for someone inside the house. A large boy of roughly eighteen years trotted out. He had a thick brow and an even thicker jaw, but the resemblance to Gerald was unmistakable. A moan was wrenched from Felix as the boy half-lifted, half-dragged him from the wagon on which he had lain for so many hours. The boy carried Felix into the house while Dorian and Gerald followed behind. "Come from Redcliffe?" Gerald asked. Dorian nodded quietly, too tired to speak let alone be charming. The farmer patted his arm. "Looks like you've had a rough journey. Care for a drink?"

Dorian couldn't imagine what his expression must have looked like just then, but the old farmer laughed. "Come then, I've got some corn whiskey we can share. The Missus can't say nothing about me having a glass or two when there's company. It'd be right impolite to let you drink alone."

Gerald led him into the house and set him down at the table. The floorboards above his head were creaking and Dorian could hear voices: one was the boy's and another that was rougher, but feminine speaking in hushed tones, obviously Gerald's "Missus". Gerald laid down two tin cups filled to the brim with amber liquid. Dorian didn't think as he tilted the cup and drank swiftly. The hot liquid burned down his throat to his stomach, choking him and bringing tears to his eyes. He drew another breath and raised it again after Gerald topped him off. It wasn't smooth, there was no subtlety of aroma or flavor. Just hard alcohol and again he drank, a slow train of warmth lighting in his veins and stealing through his body until even his fingertips tingled. What a blessed feeling, this kindly fire. It seemed to penetrate even his fuzzy, tired mind and strength came coursing back into him.

The Missus came downstairs then, her face drawn and pinched. "Gerald," she said and whispered into his ear when he stood up. The farmer's face changed rapidly from fear and alarm to pity and sadness.

"Lad," he said. "About your friend... Perhaps it'd be best if..." He trailed off, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Dorian waved him off. He knew what was going through his mind. "Felix is not contagious," he mumbled, his words already starting to slur. How could a few glasses of corn whiskey affect him so quickly? Then he belatedly remembered he hadn't eaten anything the past two days except for a handful of apples. "Felix isn't contagious," he repeated. "He's dying. I'll see to his needs. You won't even have to touch him, so you needn't worry yourself about catching anything. Just, please, let us stay the night."

The Missus turned to her husband and Gerald nodded. He showed Dorian upstairs to where Felix was lying pale on the bed and sleeping brokenly. He stared at the man stupidly. The whiskey taken on a stomach long empty was playing tricks on him. Sometimes Felix seemed far away and tiny and his incoherent mumbling came to him like the buzz of insects. And again, he loomed large, rushing at him with lightning speed. Dorian was tired to the bone. He could lie down and sleep for days. He wanted to, he wanted to sleep and sleep and wake to feel his father gently shaking his arm and saying: "Morning has already come and gone, Dorian. You must not be so lazy." But that would not happen ever again.

He pulled off his dirty robes and let them drop on the floor before sliding into the bed next to Felix, drawing the covers up to his chin. It was funny to think he had once imagined what it would be like to fall into bed with Felix, and now here they were. Not exactly the way he had planned it, was it? He might have giggled as he sank into the soft bed, curling up like a child. He was asleep within seconds.

The next morning Dorian's body was so stiff and sore from the long miles of walking and riding that every movement was agony. His face was hot with sunburn and his blistered palms were raw from the reigns. His tongue was furred and his throat parched as if flames had scorched it and no amount of water could assuage his thirst. His head felt swollen and he winced even when he turned his eyes. He had the displeasure of being both hungry and nauseous. Perhaps he should not have drank so much whiskey.

Felix smiled down at him from where he stood at the bureau, scrubbing his face with a cloth the Missus had left next to a pitcher and wash basin. He was still too pale and bruised looking for Dorian's liking, but the intelligence had returned in his eyes. "Gerald sent us up some breakfast." He nodded to a little tray that sat at the end of their bed. "I know you must be starving. Sorry about that, didn't mean to ruin your dinner plans." Felix then shifted awkwardly, looking embarrassed and... something else.

That strange expression had returned, the one Dorian had mistook for passion before. Felix looked at him with yearning, with admiration, and, yes, with love. But it was a look that spoke of _loving_ , not of being _in love_. Dorian quickly turned to the tray before his own face could betray him. He picked up the bowl of porridge, noting that Felix had hardly touched his. "Is that all you're going to eat?" He asked.

"I'm not hungry."

"You're still recovering. You should eat more."

Felix laughed. "Now you're starting to sound like Father-" He choked off and swallowed thickly. After a few false starts, coughing in an attempt to mask the tears clogging his throat, he spoke again. "Go ahead and eat mine. You deserve it anyway. I wouldn't have gotten here if it wasn't for you."

"I had some help," Dorian said between mouthfuls. All of his well-bred manners quickly fled in the face of starvation and he devoured the poor, country fare as though he had never tasted anything better. "The Herald's Qunari companion helped me get through the Hinterlands, if you believe it."

Felix gave a short laugh, though genuine. "I remember the fellow. What a pair you two must have made."

"He's an ill-bred savage. He kept trying to flirt with me."

"And I'm sure you loved every minute of it."

"Well, if I'm going to go through this much trouble to be pretty, I expect people to be openly appreciative of my efforts."

"Dorian."

He looked up at Felix and his heart leapt into his throat. He put the empty bowl back onto the tray with shaking hands and stared up at his friend. Felix looked exactly as he had the day he had appeared to him in Minrathous. This was it. He already knew what Felix was going to say even before he opened his mouth. "Dorian," he began. "I know you must be tired and I don't want to push you, but when you're able... I need you to send me back, as soon as possible."

Dorian nodded, took a deep steadying breath, and held out his hand. Felix reached into the pocket of his yellow robes and produced the amulet, placing it within his palm. It was a blocky, inartful thing. "I think this is the same one Alexius and I made in Minrathous," he mused. It hadn't worked then, but now... "Give me an hour, I'll be able to tap into the Rift and open a portal into the past. I've got to warn you though-- this isn't an exact science. You could end up anywhere. Any time."

Felix smiled. "I don't have to worry about that. We already know it'll work."

He had a point. Dorian concentrated and began to weave his spells. The space around them grew distorted. It was hard to tell where the room began and where it ended. The light shifted and green, fluttering wisps erupted in the air, wiggling like caterpillars. They curled in on themselves, twisting and spiraling until they formed a tunnel. Felix crept close, peering into the Fade, before turning to stare back at Dorian. Dorian refused to look up, however. He already said goodbye once, he couldn't do it again. Then Felix was stepping through and the entire room was flooded with brilliant, blinding light.

Dorian was alone.

It was several hours before Dorian could find the strength to leave the room. Gerald and the Missus looked up at him somewhat apprehensively. "Your friend not with you?" The farmer asked.

"He's gone."

Gerald clapped his shoulder awkwardly in an attempt to be comforting. "I am sorry. I'll send my boy to the chantry. One of the sisters will tend to him."

It took several seconds before Dorian realized what the man was referring to. He smiled, in spite of himself. "No, I mean he's left. He had somewhere important he needed to be. Couldn't be delayed, I'm afraid, or he would have thanked you himself for the kindness you showed him last night."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you need."

Dorian was touched by the man's open hospitality. For the first time since arriving in this foreign land, he didn't feel so much like a stranger. "Thank you."

Gerald's Missus washed and laundered his robes, his blistered and bleeding palms were tended to, and that afternoon Dorian treated the family to a wildly entertaining spectacle wherein he attempted to catch a most foul-tempered pig. Gerald had assured him that he was a guest and needn't exert himself, but Dorian felt terrible enough as it was sleeping in their bed and eating their food without giving something back. So, when the blasted creature escaped from her pen Dorian had offered to catch her. The damned sow gave him a merry chase, taking refuge beneath the house, and when Dorian crawled in after her she bit him hard on the arm. He was tempted to freeze the creature in place, but that would hardly improve relations between Fereldans and mages. That night the Missus served yams and peas with a side of ham. Dorian had never felt less guilty for relishing the taste of pork. He cut off a piece and placed it delicately in his mouth, letting his tongue chase the flavors as he half-listened to Gerald tell him of how the Herald brokered an alliance with the Templars and ended the war. It was obviously a favorite story of his and the man puffed up his chest with all the importance of a town crier as he relayed the news.

"Ma!" Gerald's son came tearing through the house as Dorian savored another bite. "Ma!"

"You're too late, Frank," the Missus yelled back. "We've already started without you. Hurry up and sit down or I'll give your share to the dogs."

"Forget about that now, Ma! Come on out and quick! You've got to see this! It's them Inquisition, they're closing the Breach!"

At once they were leaping from the table and rushing outside, Dorian snatching up his staff as he went. He looked up and saw the Breach where it hung over Ferelden like an inverted tornado, threatening to suck the entire world up into its gaping abyss. It seemed to be shrinking in on itself and he watched in fascination as the center was pulled downward, swirling until it was completely consumed and there was nothing left. So, that was the end of that. No more Breach.

The villagers all cheered. Loud whoops erupted and many of the girls found themselves being pulled into an impromptu dance. Dorian started clapping along in spite of himself as a few of the men pulled out handmade instruments made of washboards and spoons. A young woman came out with her fiddle and then someone broke into the tavern cellar and hauled several kegs of beer and whiskey into the street. Mugs were being offered freely and after a couple of glasses Dorian found himself holding onto some local tavern wench as they wobbled drunkenly across the makeshift dance floor. "Show me some of your fancy dancin'," she demanded. Her eyes were trained to her feet, glaring so hard like she thought she could force them to cooperate through sheer willpower alone.

"It's called a _waltz_ ," he corrected, but laughed all the same.

The chantry bells began tolling and at first Dorian thought the sisters had decided to partake in the revelry. It was only when the musicians trailed off did he realize that something was wrong. He stopped, the girl almost tripping over her own feet, and looked to see where everyone was pointing. It was the mages, the ones from Redcliffe, along with nearly two thousand Venatori. They were marching across the hills straight for Honnleath. At the head of the group was a towering, Blighted figure standing almost eleven feet tall. There was a woman at his side, cloaked in black and wielding a staff. "I am Calpernia," she announced to the terrified villagers. "Herald to the only true god this world has ever seen. The Maker you worship is a lie. Evelyn Trevelyan is a false prophet. The Elder One hears your prayers and has answered them. Kneel on bended knee and offer penitence. Do this and the Elder One will show you mercy."

Dorian slipped up beside Gerald. "Tell everyone to do as she says," he whispered in the man's ear. "They will massacre you if you fight back. I will go to Haven and warn them."

Gerald nodded. "I'll do as you say. Follow the Pilgrim's Path, the Chantry's placed signs so you can't miss it. Maker's speed, boy."

The old farmer pulled away and lifted his arms. "Praise the Elder One!" He yelled, groaning slightly as he got down on his knees. The villagers teetered and shrank, terrified but not wanting to turn their back on their God and the woman they had lifted up as His Herald, until one foolish lad rushed at the Elder One with only a pitchfork.

"For Andraste! For the Herald!"

The Elder One knocked him aside as though he was nothing more than an annoying fly. The lad collapsed against the tavern and Dorian heard his spine crack in two as he hit the stone wall. He didn't look back. He needed to get out, he needed to warn the Herald. Dorian ducked behind the general store as the villagers dropped to their knees. He hoped he was right, he hoped it would be enough to spare them. The Venatori promised to spare them. They wouldn't just kill them, would they? But then they had killed Alexius and he had been one of them. Dorian shook his head; he couldn't think about that now. He picked his way through the village, sticking to the shadows, as he made his escape. As soon as he was clear of the village he broke out into a run, nearly breaking his damned neck tripping over a stone in the dark. The green grass soon gave way to dirt and stone and even that disappeared underneath a blanket of snow and ice as Dorian climbed higher and higher through the mountains. He curled his arms into himself, rubbing at his bare shoulder as he stumbled up the path.

He looked back down at the village and saw to his relief that it was intact. The villagers all looked like little ants as they rushed back into their homes, the mages passing them by without so much as a second glance. It wouldn't be long before they caught up with Dorian.

He raced through the mountains, the lights of Haven growing ever brighter. It gave him a goal, a sense of purpose. The gate was just beyond the lake. He could make it. Bells suddenly erupted into a frenzy, breaking up the sounds of merriment he could hear floating over the fence. He looked behind him and saw the Venatori flowing over the edge of the mountains. His heart hammered wildly inside his chest and he pushed himself to go faster. Dorian spotted several Venatori scouts already at the gate, prowling in the darkness in hopes of finding some way to sneak in. Without even thinking, he pulled his staff from his belt and let loose a fireball. It threw one of the scouts into the gate and nearly set the whole damn fence on fire. With a cry, he knocked the end of his staff into the jaw of another one and watched his teeth fly out of his mouth with blood and spittle. A spin and a second hit saw his helmet dent inward and the man crumpled into the dirt. The last two attempted to gang up on him, but Dorian was a whirlwind of fire and ice. By the end of it they were dead at his feet and Dorian was falling to the ground, his lungs burning, his arms and legs weak from two days of hunger and hard travel. He looked up and saw that the gate was still barred. "If someone could open this, I'd appreciate it," he called.

The doors were thrown open and there was the Herald rushing out to meet him. A blond, handsome soldier was at her heels, his sword out and one hand outstretched to dispel any magic, but Dorian was hardly a threat at the moment. With effort, he pushed himself to his feet. "Ah. I'm here to warn you," he said. "Fashionably late, I'm afraid." He stood up straight and proud, but only for a second. Then he was tipping over, the snow rushing up to greet him. A pair of strong arms caught him, steadied him. It was the soldier -- the Templar -- holding onto him far more gently than one might expect. He kept a hand on Dorian's shoulder, but the mage waved him away and tried to find the smirk he wore like a mask. "Might exhausted. Don't mind me." He fixed the Herald with his gaze. She looked shocked to see him, her hands half-outstretched and fluttering uselessly. "There you are. I came to tell you what happened to the mages at Redcliffe. You're not going to like it. They are under the command of the Venatori, in service to something called the Elder One." He pointed to the mage and the Blighted creature leading the army that was surging through the mountains like an unbreakable wave. "The woman is Calpernia. She commands the Venatori. That-- the Elder One. They were already marching on Haven. I risked my life to get here first."

The Herald looked to the soldier. "Cullen, give me a plan. Anything."

"Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can." The soldier -- Cullen -- lifted his sword and turned back to his men who were waiting by the gate. "Soldiers! Gather the villagers! Fortify and watch for advance forces! Inquisition, with the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!"

The Herald was suddenly at his side, gripping him by the elbow. "Get inside the gate. Hurry."

She nearly shoved him and he was about to say something witty over his shoulder, but she was already gone, running toward one of the trebuchets that encircled Haven. Dorian did as she commanded and rushed up the stairs into the village. The Iron Bull and his Chargers were standing there, forming a second line of defense. The Qunari shook his head and smiled ruefully at the sight of him. "Pretty, and so much trouble."

"I didn't _bring_ the trouble, I'm _warning_ you about it," Dorian protested.

"Six of one, half a dozen of the other." Iron Bull looked over him critically. "Get to the chantry. You look like you're about to fall down."

"I can still fight."

"Suit yourself, but if you _swoon_ I'm not gonna catch you."

Dorian didn’t reply, just went to stand next to the Qunari as they watched the trebuchet unleash its arm. The fiery boulder hurtled toward the mountain, sending rock and snow tumbling down its side, swallowing everything in its path. Nothing could escape it. It covered the road, the trees, and the mages swarming the countryside like locusts. The Inquisition and villagers cheered. There would be some stragglers, but now that the bulk of the army was gone they stood a fighting chance.

The cheering was soon cut off by a terrifying screech that made his insides vibrate and his ears ring. He looked up to see a large, dark shadow pass overhead and then there was an explosion of heat and wind. The trebuchet was gone. Dorian stared in horror as the dragon turned around to do another pass.

A large, gray hand gripped him by the front of his robes and pushed him roughly towards the chantry. "Go. Now." The Iron Bull was staring up at the dragon with something akin to awe. The expression on his face was one of spiritual ecstasy, until a ragged, wild smile broke it open. "Taarsidath-an halsaam!" He roared and charged into battle. The surviving Venatori and mages were spilling out over the fence, cutting down anyone who stood in their way.

"Move it! Move it!" Cullen yelled. "Into the chantry!"

Dorian turned and ran while the Iron Bull and his men held the line. They were slicing through the Venatori; he watched in fascinating horror as the Iron Bull swung down his axe and nearly split a man in two. But there were many more Venatori than Chargers. They pushed past the Iron Bull, attacking villagers and soldiers alike. One of them grabbed Dorian by his hair, knife coming around to slit his throat. Dorian threw his hand up and pushed it against his face, feeling the flesh melt beneath his palm as he summoned the fire to his fingertips. The Venatori screamed and threw him away, hands pressing against his cheeks in a desperate attempt to stop his skin from sloughing off the bone. Dorian caught himself before he could land face first into the snow, then he was up and running, straight for the chantry, when he spotted one of the brothers swinging a tall candelabra he must have stolen from the oratory at a mage. It would have almost been amusing, if what happened next didn't sicken him so. The mage summoned ice from the ground, crawling like spiderwebs over his legs and body until it swallowed his face. He might have suffocated, but there was another of his countrymen hefting up his warhammer. The maul caught the brother in the chest, the ice shattered and he crumpled forward, his back bowing until his head was resting on the ground between his knees in gross imitation of a prayer. _He's dead. He must be dead_ , Dorian thought as he brought fire down from the Fade. The flames licked at the mage's robes, rapidly eating away at his skin. He danced around, tried to stomp it out, shot ice at it, but Dorian's magic was stronger and it soon consumed him and the Soporati soldier at his side. Dorian knelt beside the brother and saw to his amazement that he was still alive. His face was bruised and red from frostbite, one hand pressed to his chest and gasping for breath, but _alive_. The Maker must take care of His own. "I've got you," Dorian said as he wrapped an arm around the brother and pulled him into the chantry.

They had barely stepped inside when the brother took command of his own feet and pulled away. He leaned at the door and called to the desperate villagers and soldiers who were struggling to make their way through the battlefield. "Move," he rasped, as though he hadn't enough breath to speak. "Get going. The chantry is your shelter."

The Iron Bull and his Chargers rushed forward, followed quickly by the Herald and the rest of her companions. Those few words seemed to have taken everything the brother had and Dorian reached out to catch him as Cullen had done with him at the gate. "A brave man," Dorian said to the Herald as he led the brother to a chair. "He stood against a Venatori."

"Briefly." A wry smile would have tugged at the brother's mouth if his face wasn't so swollen. "I am no Templar."

Cullen ran towards them. "Herald! Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us. There has been no communication, no demands. Only advance after advance."

"There was no bargaining with the mages either," Dorian commented. "This Elder One takes what it wants. From what I gathered in Redcliffe, it marched all of this way to take your Herald."

The Herald let out something of a laugh, too high-pitched and breathless to be real. There was a touch of hysteria to her eyes. "If you have any idea why he's after me, I'm all ears."

"Besides taking the Templars, I have no idea what would incur this much wrath. And such a promising start with the landslide." He let out a bitter, humorless chuckle. "If only trebuchets remained an option."

"They are," Cullen insisted, turning to the Herald with a feverish gleam in his eyes. "If we turn the last of them to the mountains above us."

"We're overrun. To hit the enemy, we bury Haven."

"This is not survivable now. The only choice we have left is how spitefully we end this."

Dorian was on his feet and pushing into the Templar's space. "Well! That's not acceptable! I didn't race here only to have you drop rocks on my head." He had faced blood magic and sickness and starvation and poverty and _Dorian was going to survive_.

"Should we submit?!" Cullen demanded, his face inching closer. "Let him kill us?!"

Dorian sneered. "Dying is typically a last resort, not first. For a Templar, you think like a blood mage."

"There is a path." The brother broke through, ending the argument. The three of them turned to look at him. "You wouldn't know it was there unless you made the summer pilgrimage, as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me so I could--" He pushed himself to his feet, staring into the Herald's hazel eyes like a man looking upon the visage of the Bride Herself. "--So I could tell you."

The Herald turned to the Templar. "What about it, Cullen? Will it work?"

He nodded. "Possibly. If he shows us the path, but what of your escape?"

The Herald said nothing.

"Perhaps you can surprise the Elder One," Dorian mused and then Cullen was barking orders.

"Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry! Move!"

Dorian helped steady the brother, taking one of his arms and wrapping it over his shoulders. Just two days ago he had done the same thing to Felix. Chancellor Roderick refused to move his feet, however, staying rooted in front of the Herald.

"Herald," Chancellor Roderick said, unable to tear his eyes away from the woman. "If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this... I pray for you."

Her eyes were wide and frightened, all color drained from her face. But she nodded and when she stepped out of the chantry and into the darkness she did not falter.


	10. Chapter 10

Haven was gone.

Dorian stood at the top of the ridge and looked down into the darkness. Everything had been swallowed up by snow and ice. It was gone and so was the Herald. He rubbed his hands together and shivered as the wind picked up. How would they stop the Elder One now? Who will close the rifts? He wouldn't think of that now. It wouldn't do any good. Dorian turned back to the camp and resumed his watch beside Chancellor Roderick's side. The man was finally asleep. At least when the time came he wouldn't feel any pain. The brother gasped for air with each breath he took. It was a horrible rasping, gurgling sound, the sound of blood and fluid slowly filling his lungs. It wouldn't be long now.

The mage was exhausted. The time he had spent with Gerald and his family seemed like a distant memory with all that had happened. Had he really slept in a bed? Eaten not only supper, but breakfast and dinner as well? Dorian wanted to know when this ever present weariness and hunger would come to an end. Surely he was due a little respite. The Maker could not be so cruel as to keep him in this constant state of survival. The world will right itself and all his troubles would vanish. They must. Dorian had never known differently. There were a dozen cots scattered about the makeshift camp that he could have made use of for a couple of hours at least, but Dorian was reluctant to leave the Chancellor's side. Someone should be there when the inevitable happened, but also... he didn't like the way some of the villagers and soldiers were looking at him. He could hear them whispering: "Didn't someone say he was Tevinter?" "Surely not! Why would the Inquisition let him come if that was the case?" "Said he was here to warn us. Fat lot of good that did. He's probably a spy." "Someone should do something about him. String him up from a tree before he can report back to his master." It was cowardly of him; he should have gone over to one of the cots, his head held high, but, well-- there were an awful lot of them and only one of him. Dorian doubted anyone would come to his rescue if the mob got it into their head to see him personally punished for what happened at Haven, other than the Herald and the Iron Bull. But the Herald was dead and the Iron Bull was out patrolling the perimeter in case of Venatori assassins. A Pavus must be proud, but first and foremost a Pavus must be _smart_. Nobody was going to attack him so long as he stayed within the healing tents.

A shape cloaked in shadows and moving through the darkness caught Dorian's eye through the tent opening. _Venatori_ , his mind thought wildly, already halfway out of his chair and reaching for his staff when the mysterious person suddenly collapsed, lying unmoving in the snow. Cullen and another warrior named Cassandra were up and running, lanterns lifted high. "It's the Herald! Quick!" Somebody shouted.

Dorian's heart was in his throat as he watched Cullen run into the healing tents. In his arms was the Herald, looking so small wrapped up in his cloak and clutched to his chest like a child. He set her down on one of the cots and a Chantry mother brushed away the heavy fabric to peer into her face. Her eyes were wide and wild, her skin white, and lips tinged blue-- but she was alive and awake. A potion was forced between her lips and some of her color returned. "Herald, can you hear me?" The cleric asked.

"I'm not the Herald. I'm no one. No one," she answered though chattering teeth.

"Sleep, child, you're safe."

The Herald did as she commanded, her eyes sliding shut as she let exhaustion claim her. A crowd had gathered around outside of the tent. Dorian could see that some of them were praying, their eyes turned up towards the heavens, on their knees in the snow with their hands outstretched. They had heard the miraculous story of Andraste guiding the Herald out of the Fade and believed it, but now... Now they _knew_ it to be true.

Cullen marched out and drew the tent flaps closed, blocking the Herald off from prying eyes. Dorian silently followed him, peeking out of the tent to watch Cullen scowl at the gawkers, barking orders until everyone who had enough time on their hands to stand around and stare now had a job to do. Dorian watched Cullen stomp through the camp; he'd pick up letters and then set them back down again, wandered over to where the Herald's advisors stood and engaged with them briefly, before meandering somewhere else. He was restless with worry and anger and helplessness. Dorian thought he must have looked the same when Felix was ill. He never would have thought a Templar could hold his fascination, but even he had to admit that Cullen was a handsome man.

It was hours before the Herald roused from the tent, no doubt awoken by the angry shouting coming from her advisors. Cullen was not the only one feeling the stress, and the other two had quickly snapped. Their arguing soon came to an end, however, as a clear voice suddenly broke through the din. It was a hymn, but not one Dorian recognized. It did not resemble anything he knew from the Imperial Chant, but the villagers and soldiers rose up to join in, the Herald pulling herself out of her tent to stare. A hundred voices took it up, sang it, shouted it like a cheer. Dorian could hear the soft, sweet tenor of Cullen, clear and true and thrilling. He saw the Templar standing there with his eyes closed, his head lifted. There was a deep, almost fanatic glow to his face.

The same look was on the faces of all the villagers as the song ended, tears of pride on their cheeks, smiles on their lips, a deep hot glow in their eyes, as they turned to their Herald. They loved her, believed in her, trusted her to the last breaths of their bodies. How could they ever be defeated when their stalwart Herald stood between them and the Venatori? How could anything but overwhelming victory come to a cause as just and right as theirs? A cause they loved as their own lives, a cause they served with their hands and their hearts, a cause they talked about, thought about, dreamed about. The Herald could only stare blandly back at them, like some mindless calf, before half-stumbling away.

Every person there was blazing with an emotion Dorian did not feel. The Inquisition wasn't just a necessity to them, it wasn't simply a tool to combat the Venatori. It was _holy_. Dorian had to swallow back the hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat. He had traded in one religious crusade for another. Oh, but the Maker had a sense of humor! This war wasn't holy or sacred, and Dorian could never think of it as anything but a nuisance that killed men senselessly. He was so tired of the fighting. Tired and bored and nauseated with death and sickness and poverty.

Dorian looked down at his charge and saw that the Chancellor was still and white and waxy with death. At peace at last. A sense of guilt overcame him; he hadn't noticed, he should have noticed. Someone should have comforted him, even if the brother had been too far gone to know.

Something warm fell onto his shoulders and Dorian reached up to pull the thick, wool blanket closer about his bare shoulders. The Iron Bull came to sit beside him and peered over at the body of the Chancellor. "It's happened then? Good. Now he won't have to suffer needlessly." The Qunari looked out at the sea of rapturous faces before them. "Weird, isn't it? I don't think I'll ever understand all this human religion horseshit."

"You do realize that I'm human and an Andrastian as well?"

"Yeah, but you're not like them. Before I came over, I stood there and watched you and I watched everyone else. They all looked as though their faces came out of one mold. Yours didn't. You have an easy face to read. You find it just as ridiculous as I do."

"Well, I'm not going to sit here and listen to you insult my people or my religion," Dorian retorted, not wanting to give the Qunari the satisfaction of acknowledging that they shared something in common.

The Iron Bull was not fooled and he smirked at the mage. "A red hot little rebel, eh?" He mocked.

Dorian would show him "red hot". The Iron Bull leapt to his feet and raced outside the tent where he sat down -- almost collapsed -- into the snow, wiggling his bum in the wet slush to put out the small flame that had mysteriously appeared on the seat of his pants.

* * *

Dorian looked across the mountains and his heart sank at the sight of the dilapidated castle.

What was left of the Inquisition had tracked across the Frostback Mountains for three days into Orlais to a place where Solas -- the Inquisition's elven apostate -- had assured them they would find sanctuary. This "Skyhold" was little more than a ruin. They had few men and little coin to repair it with. It was Parvulis now and autumn came swiftly on its heels. In Tevinter, Dorian would have been found lounging across the settee in the shade of the peristyle, the hot, stifling air broken only occasionally by a sweet breeze. Drinks frosted with a touch of magic would be served and there would be swimming and parties. Dorian tried to imagine the hot sun now as he wrapped the blanket more firmly about him. "We'll get you a cloak once we reach Skyhold," the Herald had assured him. He would give up any promise of a cloak for a proper roof.

There was no time to rest. Those that could work, worked. Rubble had to be cleared away, walls needed to be reinforced, food had to be gathered, and clean water must be found. Dorian stuck close to Evelyn-- every time he called her Herald her face grew pinched and harried, and he had quickly learned not to say it. They had little in common. She was too mousy and boring to be of much interest to him, but she clung to him like a lifeline and nobody bothered him when she was near. Most of the Inquisition regarded him with barely contained hostility. It was Tevinters who sacked Haven, who murdered so many of their comrades, and here was one of them, strutting through the camp like he belonged. He would not lie; sometimes he feared for his safety, but he would never give them the satisfaction of knowing it. With his back kept stiff and straight, his chin cocked upward, he moved with purpose, with pride. It did not win him any friends, but he didn't care. He would show them he didn't care.

Together, he and Evelyn had pulled stone after stone from the entrance to the garden -- levitating those they could, then picking them up and tossing them aside when their mana ran low and they were too tired to go on -- until at last they managed to find a way inside two days after their arrival. Food was growing scarce. The Inquisition had grabbed as many supplies as they could before Haven's destruction, but they had been caught unprepared. They had resorted to eating hardtack and melting snow for water. Hopefully, something could be scavenged in the overgrown garden.

Dorian began to pull at the vines and brush that littered the ground, their thorns digging sharply into his bare hands. He briefly considered simply burning it away, but then thought better of it. _Yes, Dorian, light the dry, dead leaves on fire with you and whatever vegetables still in it. What a wonderful idea._ He muttered several curses under his breath as he continued to dig. Underneath the foliage he found little tufts of green sprouts that he dimly recognized as straggling beans and turnips. The sight of these few vegetables was enough to take his breath away.

He spotted a row of radishes and hunger assaulted him quickly. A spicy, sharp-tasting radish was exactly what his stomach craved. Hardly waiting to rub the dirt off on his robes, he bit off half and swallowed it hastily. It was old and coarse and so peppery that tears started in his eyes. No sooner had the lump gone down than his empty outraged stomach revolted and he laid face down in the soft dirt and leaves, pressing his hands against his mouth in an attempt to keep from vomiting. The earth was as soft and comfortable as a feather pillow, and his mind wandered feebly here and there. He, Dorian Pavus, was lying in the dirt in the middle of the Frostback Mountains, too sick and too weak to move, and no one in the world cared. All of this was happening to him, who had never raised his hand even to pick up his discarded laundry from the floor, whose little headaches and tempers had been coddled and catered to all his life.

As he lay prostrate, too weak to fight off memories and worries, they rushed at him like buzzards waiting for death. No longer had he the strength to say: "I'll think of Father and Felix and all this ruin later-- Yes, later, when I can stand it." He could not stand it now, but he was thinking of them whether he willed it or not. What was he doing here? He wanted to do some good, but it was obvious he didn't belong. No one wanted him. They'd kill him in a heartbeat if it wasn't for Evelyn. Only Felix cared and he was gone and Dorian didn't know where. He should have followed him, paradoxes be damned. He belonged with Felix, not with these Southern barbarians. He was starving and freezing and alone. Dorian lay still, his face in the cold, hard dirt, remembering people lost to him, remembering a way of living he would probably never experience again.

"I found the well! … Dorian? Dorian?"

With a jolt, Dorian remembered he was not alone. Evelyn had just witnessed his self-pitying tantrum. _Be prideful, be a Pavus_ , a voice whispered harshly in his mind, one that sounded an awful lot like his father. Hurriedly, he went to sit up but his stomach heaved and he was forced to lie down again. Evelyn was at his side in an instant, examining him, feeling his pulse and lightly pressing on his stomach. She took in the nausea, the half-eaten radish, and sighed. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you this might happen. The body doesn't adjust well to food after prolonged malnutrition, and you've gone longer without than the rest of us. We're going to have to do this carefully; otherwise the shock could kill you. Milk is the best remedy. It's easier on the stomach. Josephine is preparing to send a wagon to the nearest village to re-establish connection with her merchant contacts. I'll tell them to bring back some milking cows. Until then there isn't much we can do." She peered into his eyes. "Do you think you can sit up?"

Dorian nodded and carefully he moved so that he was leaning next to her. Evelyn kept one hand on his back, rubbing circles, as he steadied his breathing and forced the nausea down. "Why didn't you answer any of my letters?" He asked, once he had gained enough control over his body. "If you had just helped me stop Alexius none of this might have happened."

Evelyn looked down and bit her lip. "I... I don't know, I was just... I was so angry when I found out what the mages had done. I worked _so hard_ to help bring them and the Templars together, to find a peaceful solution we could all agree to, and not only did the Grand Enchanter not bother to show up at the Conclave, I then learn she had allied with Tevinter."

"You did it to... what? Get back at them?"

Evelyn drew up her knees. Her face was flushed red and she was studiously avoiding his gaze. "Not quite, I mean not all of it was about that. I... When you came to me at the chantry I thought you were lying. You were Tevinter, it had to be trick, and... and you're very handsome, so... I, uh..."

Peals of laughter rang through the garden as Dorian realized just what Evelyn was hinting at. "You thought I was the honeypot?"

Evelyn buried her face into her knees, her large ears as scarlet as her face. But from the way her shoulders shook, Dorian knew that she was laughing too. Afterwards, they sat in silence for a while, neither one really knowing what to say. It occurred to Dorian that the reason why Evelyn had been so attached to him this past week was because she felt guilty for spurning his offer of help before. He couldn't help but feel vindictive satisfaction at the thought; if she hadn't, Felix would be safe and sound in Minrathous instead of only Maker knew where. Eventually, they returned to work. What was past was past. The lazy luxury of the old days was gone, never to return. It was time Dorian settled his own mind and his own life. There was no going back and he was going forward.

In the days that followed, Skyhold might have been a desert island, so still it was, so isolated from the rest of the world. Tiny Orlesian villages dotted the countryside only a few miles away, but a thousand leagues of tumbling waves might have stretched between Skyhold and Emprise du Lion. Even with horses, traveling to and from was weary, time-consuming work. Somewhere in the world there were people who ate rich food and slept safely in beds, just as Dorian had done a few short months ago. But in Skyhold those places did not exist except as memories which must be fought back when they rushed to mind in moments of exhaustion. The world outside receded before the demands of half-empty stomachs and life resolved itself into two related thoughts: food and how to get it.

Food! Food! Why did the stomach have a longer memory than the mind? Dorian could banish heartbreak and homesickness but not hunger. When he lay awake at night, he could not help but think of the old days. How careless he had been of food then, what prodigal waste! Lamb, rolls, cakes, pies, cheese, fruit, all at one meal. There would always be three desserts, so everyone might have his choice. The memory of those savory meals had the power to bring tears to his eyes as battle had failed to do. The unremitting labor required of him and everyone else to make Skyhold livable once again only increased the hunger fourfold. Evelyn's favoritism for him aside, Dorian would have to earn his keep or he wouldn't be kept. He couldn’t help but think back to all those lessons in etiquette and manners his parents forced him to endure. What good were they to him now? Better he had learned to plow or cut stone like a Soporatus. Dorian did find some useful occupation in the ancient library, among the dusty, crumbling tomes. He learned a great deal about this mysterious Elder One. His name was Corypheus, one of the legendary Tevinter Magisters who had stormed the Maker's Golden City and returned as a darkspawn. The first darkspawn. He had sundered the Veil, caused the Breach that Evelyn had walked out of, all in an attempt to achieve godhood. As news of who and what Corypheus truly was spread throughout the keep, Dorian began to feel increasingly unsafe. He stayed holed up in the library, surrounded by Tranquil who treated him with the same distant politeness that they showed everyone else. Occasionally, he pulled himself away from his corner to converse with a few of Evelyn's friends. Solas was an unbearable snob and every gesture of friendship made was coldly refused. The elf seemed to hold him personally responsible for the ills of his homeland. Blackwall was no better. He said little of his nationality, but he begrudged Dorian's noble background. Dorian was of the mind that the Grey Warden was simply jealous of his superior hygiene. Also, he may have referred to him as "that hairy lummox" a few times. Loudly. Where the Warden could hear. While polite enough for a grunting, surly warrior, he had little in common with Cassandra, Evelyn's fierce Seeker who guarded her shadow like a dog. The woman who had been with the Herald when he met her in the chantry introduced herself as Vivienne. She was the Herald's most trusted advisor and she seemed to have taken it upon herself to reign over what few mages were here at Skyhold, as though this was a Circle and she its First Enchanter. Vivienne had tried to take him under her wing, to guide him into becoming what was expected of a proper Southern mage, but Dorian had quite enough of that while in Tevinter, thank you. He wasn't good or proper, and he refused to play along any longer. Their relationship had since devolved into petty sniping. The only one among Evelyn's companions that he truly got along with was that notorious storyteller Varric, but except for when they all got together to drink and play cards the dwarf rarely left the Great Hall where he held court.

When Josephine's -- the Inquisition's diplomat and bookkeeper -- caravan returned with food and people and supplies and yes, milk cows, the entire castle erupted into a celebration. Evelyn kept strict control over everyone's food intake, however. It was rather amusing to see how her entire demeanor would shift the moment someone's health became a concern. She was a shy, frightfully boring creature in social situations, and a terrible sparring partner. Dorian had tried to teach her a few basic offensive strikes and the one time she managed to hit him -- and barely even a tap at that! -- she immediately dropped her staff and stammered out an apology. He had laughed himself silly after Cassandra presented her with a sword and proclaimed her Inquisitor. What was Evelyn going to do with a sword? She couldn't even wield her staff correctly. Healing was the only area she had any confidence in, and the one subject she expected her orders to be obeyed to the letter. Evelyn slowly reintroduced bread and cheese and meat into their diets until she was sure they were fully recovered. Whatever her other faults, she understood what the body needed and she dedicated herself to ensuring her people were well cared for.

His favorite person to converse with by far was Cullen. It was strange; he never would have guessed he'd become such good friends with a Templar. Someone had found an old chess set and the two spent what few off hours they could spare playing against each other. He was sweet and kind and earnest, but he'd also tease back whenever Dorian prodded him. Not to mention he was easy on the eyes. In a way, he kind of reminded Dorian of Felix. Effortlessly honorable. The relationship between them was simple and comfortable. He didn't ask Dorian any personal questions, and Dorian did the same. Their games quickly became a form of escape whenever Dorian needed to get away from the furtive glares and wagging tongues. Sometimes, most times, Dorian imagined kissing him during the middle of their game, just to see what the Templar would do. Cullen blushed so easily. Was it any wonder he lost more often than not?

He vastly preferred Cullen's company to the Iron Bull, but the Qunari was like a housecat-- insisting on being bothersome when it was clear he wasn't wanted. He'd find some excuse to sit with Dorian whenever he found the Tevinter drinking alone in the tavern. Dorian supposed he could find somewhere else to get a drink. Vivienne hosted a salon in her rooms and she had a far better selection of wine then the fruit mash the bartender tried to pass off as Orlesian vintage. But it was the principle of the matter. He wasn't going to let some hulking savage push him out. So, like clockwork, Dorian would abandon the library for the tavern's warm, inviting atmosphere and there the Iron Bull would be, grinning and lifting a mug in his direction. He could not help but push back against the Bull. Dorian would wheedle him, poke and prod and all the Iron Bull would do was simply laugh and say something bawdy, letting the sharp insults roll off his back. Dorian was as helpless as a child to control and handle the Qunari; nothing surprised the Bull and much amused him. Especially when he managed to get Dorian into a speechless temper, then the mage felt that he amused him more than anything in the world. Frequently Dorian flared into open wrath under his expert baiting. Never had he bothered to control his temper except in Halward's presence; now it was painful to have to choke back words for fear of the Iron Bull's amused grin. If only the Qunari would ever lose his temper too, then he would not feel at such a disadvantage.

Dorian floundered before his calm smile and his drawling remarks, for he had never before met anyone who was so completely impregnable. His weapons of scorn, coldness and wit blunted in his hands, for nothing he could say would shame him. It had been his experience that the liar was the hottest to defend his veracity, the coward his courage, the ill-bred his gentlemanliness, and the cad his honor. But not the Iron Bull. He wasn't just a mercenary, he was a Ben-Hassrath, a spy for the Qunari and freely admitted to such. He had no shame. Dorian called him a savage, a beast, an animal. The Qunari admitted everything and laughed and dared him to say more.

Dorian had been at Skyhold for a month when he received the letter. Construction was well underway by now. A dwarven engineer had arrived, assessed the place, and immediately started work. He had nearly a hundred expert craftsmen under his command and they had transformed Skyhold not just into a habitable place but a fortress to command respect. Dorian had discreetly asked the Inquisition's spymaster, Leliana, for a favor and in the middle of Frumentum her spies delivered. He read and reread the lines over and over again, but the words did not change. Felix had disappeared. No one had seen him for over a month. He truly was gone.

He knew that it had been unreasonable to expect Felix to recover after his last bout of sickness. He was very ill and living on borrowed time anyhow. Even if he had never gotten sick that night, it was likely that the Blight would have only left him three more months to live, tops. And that's without even taking the Venatori into consideration and what they might have done if they found him. Dorian quickly brushed away the tears and shoved the letter into his pocket as Evelyn came up the stairs into his little nook and greeted him. He didn't want to speak of this with her. It was partially her fault. If she had just listened to him then maybe... It didn't matter. None of it mattered. The only reason he was here was because of Felix. Because Felix had come to him in Minrathous and asked him to and like the lovesick fool he was he followed his friend blindly. Now that Felix was gone, was there any reason to remain? As from another world Dorian remembered a conversation with his father about Tevinter and wondered how he could have been so young, so ignorant, as to not understand what he meant when he said that Tevinter was the one thing in the world worth fighting for.

_It'll come to you. There's no getting away from it, you were born of Tevinter. It is the only thing in this world that lasts, the only thing worth working for-- worth dying for._

Yes, Tevinter was worth fighting for, and he accepted simply and without question the fight. But it wouldn't be the Tevinter his father knew and spoke of, Dorian would fight to make it better. Nothing was going to take Tevinter away from him, not blood magic and not the Venatori.


	11. Chapter 11

The Southern mind was a foreign creature. Dorian could not even begin to understand their thoughts. His every little action took on a dark, sinister edge in their eyes, no matter how innocuous. Stripping the leaves from a bundle of elfroot? Obviously intended for poison. Chatting amiably with Commander Cullen? The evil Magister is trying to seduce him and weaken the Inquisition's forces. And that was the thing that really boggled the mind. They did not care one whit about the fact that he was a man, only that he was supposedly some Venatori harlot. Had he been a proper Southerner the gossiping nags who had been quick to condemn him would have no doubt been planning their wedding by now.

No matter where he went -- Tevinter or Ferelden or Orlais -- all anyone ever seemed to talk about was who he was taking to bed. At least back home he had lovers. If he was to endure such slander shouldn't he at least be reaping some of the benefit? He was rather put out by the fact that he wasn't actually enjoying any of the wild, fanciful sex these villagers imagined for him. It wasn't as though he didn't try. Flirting with Cullen had quickly become his favorite pastime, but the man seemed rather oblivious to Dorian's affections. He always laughed like it was a joke, teased back a little, and Dorian laughed along with him, too cowardly to confess the truth. He longed to kiss him, to know him. Cullen had provided him a safe harbor to retreat to when the whispers became too much to bear. Fear and worry could not touch him when in his company. He wanted to hold on to Cullen, lest he slip through his grasp like Felix had done. But always he held his tongue. Thoughts of that afternoon spent in Magister Carloman's library came rushing back to him. Dorian would not show anyone his heart, not unless he knew for certain his love was returned.

Those days when Cullen was too busy to see him never failed to remind Dorian how much he hated Skyhold. Even an ancient, ruined fortress filled with hateful rumormongers seemed bright and pleasant when Cullen was near. But for the past two weeks the man had kept his head buried in his maps, snapping at anyone who drew too near. The entire Grey Warden order had seemingly vanished from the face of Thedas; only Blackwall remained, and he was as baffled as the rest of them. Corypheus must be involved; the Grey Wardens' disappearance and his own arrival were too closely linked to be a coincidence. Luckily, Varric had been able to provide them with a lead: his friend, the Champion of Kirkwall. William Hawke had been there at the start of the Mage-Templar War; indeed, some said his actions caused it. It was his Grey Warden friend, the mage Anders, who assassinated the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. But beggars couldn't be choosers. Without Hawke they might never be able to find out what happened to the Grey Wardens. Cullen had been the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall and seeing Hawke again... Well, he was obviously feeling the stress and Dorian was reluctant to bother him now. He kept to his chair in the library, drinking brandy stolen from the cellar and perusing Skyhold's limited selection of books. The only tome available on the Tevinter Imperium was nothing more than trite propaganda. Five chapters were dedicated solely to orgies. It was enough to give him a headache. Most evenings, Dorian would have made his way down to the tavern by now, but that was hardly an option at the moment. The Iron Bull and his Chargers were out in the field on a mission, and the tavern seemed a cold and hostile place without them.

The boredom eventually drove him to seek out Evelyn. She had invited him several times to join her at one of Vivienne's salons, but he had always politely declined. It was full of nothing but Circle mages waxing on about the "good ol' days" when they had still been shackled and bound by the Templars. They might as well sew their lips shut and walk around in iron chains. Dorian didn't know whether to pity them or hate them. It must have been desperation that now saw him standing outside the door leading to the upper balcony that Vivienne had claimed as her parlor. His hand was still on the handle when he heard the harsh, grating Fereldan accent filter beneath the crack. "I think it's shameless the way he carries on with the Commander."

It was Petra, one of the Loyalist mages who had joined the Inquisition when Vivienne threw her lot in with Evelyn. Dorian felt his heart begin to race as he realized just whom exactly she was talking about. Should he slip away? Or make himself known and embarrass Petra as she deserved? But the next voice made him pause. Corypheus himself could not have dragged him away when he heard Evelyn speak.

"Don't be unkind. He's just high-spirited and vivacious. I find him most charming."

To have that mousy little Inquisitor take up for him! He didn't need her protection.

"You must be blind. That Tevinter flirts with anyone willing to put up with him. You should see how he acts when his Qunari mercenary is around. Like a peacock on parade!"

"I know you think he's this brave hero, but you must be careful. We don't know what his true intentions are." That was Kinnon, another Fereldan. "It just seems a little too convenient that his warning came too late to be of any use, not to mention the way he seems to have... _ingratiated_ himself with you and the Commander."

"Ingratiate...?" Came Evelyn's puzzled voice before she caught on to what he was hinting at. "Goodness! You think we're lovers?"

That was his cue. Dorian threw open the door and strutted up the stairs to the balcony. "I apologize for being late," he said as Evelyn and Vivienne rose to meet him. "I was caught up in my research and completely lost track of time."

"I'm so glad you could make it!" And by the expression on her face, Dorian could tell that Evelyn truly meant it.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all, darling!" Said Vivienne. Her shark-like smile widened as she offered him a seat and a glass of wine. Merriment and savagery danced in her eyes and Dorian realized that she knew he had overheard everything that had been said. "We were just reminiscing about the Circle. Of course, you wouldn't know much about that, would you? I don't expect Tevinter to do things right. But here the Circle really is its own little country. I remember the difficulty I had adjusting to life outside when I first came to court. Everything was different; I had to learn it all. Even romance! There were all these little rules about who could sleep with who and where and when and how. Love was freer in the Circle."

"You must think me a fool to believe that. I thought the Templars slapped you lot in chastity belts."

Evelyn and Vivienne looked at each other and broke out into peals of laughter. "Oh, you poor naïve thing," Vivienne said, her smile fond and mocking.

"Officially, yes, the Templars are supposed to keep us from fraternizing. They don't want us breeding," Evelyn explained patiently. "But it isn't enforced. I think only Kirkwall actually bothered with it and, well... it really was the worst of the worst. But for most Circles, the Templars are happy to turn a blind eye so long as it isn't one of their own _ingratiating_ themselves with the mages. There is very little to do in the Circle other than research and teaching. So you can imagine just how exactly we filled our time. Cut off from society as we were, there were no expectations or rules when it came to sex."

It amazed Dorian at how candidly Evelyn could speak of such matters. She was usually so shy, and yet here she didn't even blush. "But the Templars," Dorian protested. "I thought they were always watching?"

Vivienne laughed. "You're rather more prudish than I imagined a Tevinter being."

Evelyn giggled as well and patted Dorian's hand like he was some sweet, innocent babe. "Yes, but they were Templars. Hardly more than furniture, albeit good-looking, well-dressed furniture. In a properly run Circle, Templars are not supposed to interfere in our business except in cases of blood magic or other abuses. They're not even allowed to speak to us except when necessary. Some mages used to make a game out of it. They would do increasingly outrageous things in front of some poor recruit in hopes of making him break character."

All of Dorian's trysts had been quick and hurried under cover of darkness. The idea of sex being something casual and open, done even in front of other people without a care, was downright scandalous to him. Horrifying even. "Of course, not even Montsimmard was as loose as Kinloch Hold." Vivienne turned her predatory gaze onto Petra and Kinnon. The Game was afoot. "That is where you two are originally from, correct? You must have stories to tell! Please, do share. The things I've heard that went on in the Fereldan Circle would peel the paint off walls."

Petra and Kinnon murmured their excuses and made a hasty exit. Evelyn smiled slow and lazy, shooting Vivienne a grateful look out of the corner of her eye as she pulled out some knitting from her pocket. Vivienne quirked her lips back and lifted her glass in Dorian's direction. It surprised him that she would take up for him. They were always baiting each other, hurling barely veiled insults across camp. But then again maybe it wasn't about him at all. Even the rumor of a Tevinter lover could bring ruin to Evelyn, which in turn would hurt Vivienne's position as one of her followers. Or perhaps she truly cared about Evelyn as a friend. It was difficult to tell with her.

"They really were being quite mean," Evelyn insisted as she began to knit. A ball of yarn tumbled along her robe to rest between her feet. "They were making it sound like you were... prostituting yourself for the Venatori!"

"You thought the same thing back in Redcliffe," Dorian pointed out.

Evelyn flushed scarlet and looked up at Dorian with wide, apologetic eyes. Vivienne snorted delicately into her hand. "Poor dear! Is that what you thought? I could have told you that you weren't to his taste, darling."

The old fear crashed over him at Vivienne's words. He knew -- he _knew_ \-- that things were different in the South, and yet he couldn't stop his fluttering heart or the way his eyes darted toward the Inquisitor. Evelyn didn't seem to have heard her, or understand the implication if she had. She was staring at Dorian, her eyes never once leaving his as though she could communicate all of her thoughts with one simple look. "I was wrong. You're amazing, Dorian. You helped us, you did everything you could, and you did it on your own. I couldn't have done what you did. I have an army, advisors, a fortress, and I still manage to muck everything up." She gave a tired, self-deprecating laugh. "I know Cullen feels the same way. He's proud to have you as his friend, there is nothing anyone could say that would change that."

The fear was swept away at the words and a warm longing replaced it. "Really?"

Evelyn blushed and the smile on her face was secretive, her eyes distant and looking back in fondness at a private memory. "Oh, yes, he told me so. He knows what you did for Honnleath. It's his hometown. He took me there on a recent trip to Ferelden and showed me all the places he used to go to as a child and told me that if it wasn't for you all those places he loved might not exist anymore. He admires you, like I do."

Cullen _admired_ him! His giddy thoughts kept turning back to Evelyn's words for days. Every look and word the Commander said to him took on new meaning after that. Dorian thought Cullen must feel something deeper than friendship for him, he must, but Dorian could not bring himself to ask. Every time he stepped inside Cullen's office he found himself back in that library on the Valarian Fields. Ice swept through him and all of Dorian's intentions of confessing his feelings fled in the face of Cullen's handsome face. He was being ridiculous. What was there to be afraid of? He was not afraid of battle or hunger or even death. Cullen was not a cruel man; he would not spurn their friendship even if he didn't feel the same. Dorian knew this, but still he could not control his wild heart. He was tired of being alone; if he wanted love then he must be brave enough to reach out and take it. Dorian took a deep steadying breath and went off in search of the Commander. It was late at night, but Cullen would still be up, no doubt hunched over his desk, elbow deep in work. He needed to learn to relax and maybe Dorian could be that person to teach him. Soft, hushed voices drifted across the battlements and Dorian slowed his pace. It was coming from Cullen's office. Curious as to whom the Commander could be entertaining at this hour, Dorian crept up to the window and peeked inside.

Cullen was lounging in his chair while Evelyn perched on his desk, her feet crossed demurely at her ankles. There was a book in her lap but her eyes kept straying from the pages to look at Cullen with an expression that radiated the fact that she belonged to him. The Commander was playing with the ends of Evelyn's sash and smiling up at her as she continued to read. "Let me sing of heroes and honor lost and found, of monsters and men in all forms, of Dane, hunter without peer, feared by the forests of Ferelden, who one autumn morn spied a hart of pure white in beam of warmest sun, a prize for huntsman's spear." There was a dreamy, lazy somnolence to their words and looks, but also a heat smoldering just beneath the surface.

Dorian pushed himself away and made his way slowly, achingly, down the steps, keeping both hands on the banister. Of course, of course. Why would he think this time would be any different? There was no feeling of shame or disappointment or bitterness now, only a weakness of the knees and a great emptiness of the heart. He needed to get away. He needed to get drunk.

The tavern was noisy and colorful and full of life. The Chargers had returned from their mission, bruised and laughing, as they regaled the pretty barmaids with their stories of adventures. A buxom redhead was perched on the Iron Bull's knee, hanging on his every word. Dorian turned away from the sight and took up a seat in the corner. He was deep into his third drink when the Bull came up beside him, as silent as an assassin. It was difficult to imagine someone so large capable of such stealth. Or perhaps Dorian was drunker than he thought and simply hadn't noticed. "Here to personally welcome me back?" The Qunari asked with a lecherous grin, leaning slightly into his space. He still smelled of sweat and smoke.

" _Vishante kaffas_!" Dorian gagged, pushing him away. "Don't you ever bathe?"

"Sometimes. You want to watch, don't you?" He then did something with his eye that took Dorian several seconds to realize that it was suppose to be a wink.

"I'd rather stand upwind."

The Qunari shrugged. "Human sweat smells like pork that's been sitting in the sun. Just saying."

"Well, as enlightening and disgusting as this conversation has been, I'd rather be by myself. Alone. So that means you'll need to be elsewhere."

A contemplative look passed over the Bull's face. "You seemed a bit down, thought you could use the company."

"You were mistaken," Dorian snapped, turning back to his drink.

The Iron Bull held up his hands in a placating gesture as he stood up. "Alright, but feel free to join me if you change your mind."

Dorian waved him off as he went back to where the Chargers were waiting. A restlessness fell over the mage as he surveyed the tavern. He didn't want to stay here, but he didn't want to be alone and the only thing that was waiting for him was an empty chair in an empty library and an empty bed in an empty room. His eyes fell on one of Leliana's scouts, an Antivan fellow that he recognized but could not place the name. He was handsome and dark and he was looking at Dorian like a meal to be devoured. "You'll have to forgive me," Dorian said as he came to stand in front of the man. "But for the life of me I cannot recall your name. You're stationed at Caer Bronach, correct? You were there the last time we were at Crestwood."

The man looked pleased at having been remembered. "Yes, I am here on furlough." His accent was thick and it sent shivers up Dorian's spine. "My name is Francesco and you are Dorian Pavus. I've heard many things about you."

Dorian laughed and shook his head. "Yes, I am rather infamous, aren't I?"

"Abandoning your homeland, fighting the good fight? I can see why you'd have such a terrible reputation." Francesco grinned.

The old mask slipped onto his face as though he had never taken it off. The one that he had learned to craft after many hard lessons learned while being shunted from Circle to Circle, and the one he perfected while living in Minrathous. Coy and charming, he would press his hand against a shoulder, lean in as though he could not hear over the din of the ball, and ask his companion if he might not show him the gardens he's heard so much about while they discussed politics. Or the gallery or the library or whatever else might be at hand to provide a readily available excuse. It would all be very discreet, lasting no more than twenty minutes, leaving behind no evidence that could link the either of them to anything more than vague gossip. It was comforting and easy to fall back into old habits. There was no talk of feelings-- not of admiration, or friendship, and certainly not love. Lust pushed them out the door.

Dorian noticed that the Iron Bull was watching his every movement. His expression was inscrutable, but Dorian couldn't help but think there was a distinct look of disappointment in his eye. What a fine hypocrite he was! There was usually at least one tavern wench or stable boy occupying his bed at any given time. Dorian held his head up and boldly, scandalously took the scout by the hand as he led him out into the cold night.

It was quick and dirty against the wall behind the tavern. Francesco laughed against his mouth. "Fancy noble like you, I expected you wanted to wine and dine first. Do things proper."

Dorian tugged at his lips with his teeth and refused to answer.

Afterwards, as Dorian breathed heavily against his neck, he heard Francesco say, almost shyly, "I have a room upstairs. A proper room. Not a bunk in the barracks where the soldiers sleep. We could retire and in the morning have a second go."

Share a bed for the night? Absurd. That was something only lovers did. "The Inquisitor has requested my presence early tomorrow." He hoped the excuse was sufficient, that it was gentle enough not to wound. He had never turned someone down like this before. No one had ever offered.

Francesco pulled away, the shadows obscured his face so that Dorian could not see his expression. "Of course, your duties must come first." He righted his clothes, helping Dorian to do the same. "I will speak to you another time then."

"I would like that."

They didn't talk again. Occasionally they spotted one another at the tavern or on the battlements, and gave each other a polite nod, but that was as far as their association went. Eventually Francesco returned to Caer Bronach and that was that, until two weeks later when he rode back through the gates along with the Inquisitor and several other Inquisition scouts. Dorian closed his book and peeked out the window from his seat in the library to watch the goings-on. Coming up behind Evelyn's horse was a prison cart filled with Venatori. He almost didn't recognize the Tevinter at first. His hood was off, a cape thrown carelessly across his shoulders. He was dirty and unshaven and without boots but somehow jaunty despite his dishabille, and his dark eyes were filled with self-deprecating mirth. It was Rilienus, but what was he doing with the Venatori? Dorian would have never imagined he would get caught up in all this.

Dorian threw his book in the chair and raced up the stairs into the rookery. The spymaster was leaning back against her chair, her nose buried in reports, when she looked up and saw Dorian standing in front of her desk. "The Venatori they just brought in--" He began, in lieu of a greeting.

"Yes? What about them?"

"I know one of them. His name is Rilienus Galeo. He's not a fanatic."

Her brow quirked upward at this. "He's an admitted Venatori. Also, he tried to kill the Inquisitor."

"It just doesn't make sense!" Dorian insisted. "Something else is going on."

The look on Leliana's face was piercing, like she could crack him open and see all of his secrets. _She thinks we were lovers_ , he thought. Leliana leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, red hair framing her beautiful, solemn face as she peered up at him. "They will be tried and executed. Mercy is not an option. The Inquisitor cannot be seen as having any sympathy toward the Venatori, especially in light of her friendship with you." Dorian swallowed thickly. He was used to being the target of malicious rumors and gossip, but the knowledge that his presence was ruining even the reputations of people who cared about him was difficult to endure. "However, if you can persuade this Venatori to give up valuable information then his sentence could be remitted to life imprisonment instead. This is the best I can do."

He thanked her and hurried down into the dungeons. "Rilienus, skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles. He would have said yes." A voice rang out as Dorian all but ran through the corridors. It sounded strangely familiar, but when he looked around he saw no one. By the time he reached the dungeons, he had forgotten all about it. Dorian quickly ran his fingers through his hair, fixing it as best he could, before sucking in a deep breath and pushing open the door.

The guard on duty looked up in bewilderment. "You suppose to be here?" He barked.

"The spymaster has given me her permission. Now leave us, I need to speak with one of the prisoners. Alone."

The guard scowled, taking in his staff and Tevinter clothing. Dorian rolled his eyes and huffed, "This isn't a prison break. In case it has escaped your notice, Skyhold is surrounded by mountains and filled with Templars and soldiers. But by all means! Let's help the Venatori escape. It's only the middle of the afternoon, and most of them haven't the shoes or clothes to survive a dangerous climb through the mountains. I'm sure the plan will work splendidly!"

The man spat on the ground as he climbed to his feet, throwing one last look of suspicion over his shoulder. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Dorian rushed to Rilienus's cell, ignoring the dark glares of his fellow Venatori.

"Dorian!"

Rilienus stretched out his hands through the bars and clutched at Dorian's wrists. Before he quite knew what he was about, he pressed Dorian against the cell and kissed his cheek, his scraggly beard tickling him. "How romantic! Brought together again at last!" He mocked and grinned at him as if he relished Dorian's squirming.

"You idiot!" Dorian snapped, finally wrenching his hands away. "What are you doing with these cultists? I thought you smarter than that."

"And here I was hoping for a conjugal visit."

"You are out of your mind--"

Rilienus sighed dramatically. "Another hope crushed. And after I offered up myself for gods and country. Are you sure you don't want to see me off of this mortal coil with a fond memory?"

"Why must you always joke?"

"I'm not joking. And I am hurt, Dorian, that you do not take my gallant sacrifice with better spirit. Where is your patriotism?" His drawling voice gibed in his ears. Rilienus was jeering at him and, somehow, he knew he was jeering at himself too. What was he talking about? Patriotism? It wasn't possible that he meant what he saying.

"Why?" Dorian demanded, his voice rough. "Why would you do this?"

He shrugged, like he didn't much care. "It seemed like the thing to do at the time."

"I've made a deal with the Inquisition: if you give up valuable information on the Venatori they will spare your life. You'll be imprisoned with no hope of gaining your freedom, but it's better than execution."

"You're assuming I have any information to give. I'm hardly more than a common foot soldier."

Dorian opened his mouth, but no sound came out, the words choking on rage and helplessness. He had tried, the Maker couldn't say he hadn't tried. If Rilienus refused to help himself then there wasn't much that Dorian could do. He turned swiftly on his heel and headed toward the door.

"You asked me why?" Rilienus laughed jauntily, bitterly. "Because, perhaps, of the betraying sentimentality that lurks in all of us Tevinters. Perhaps... perhaps because I am ashamed. Even a bastard catamite like me wants respect now and then. The Venatori were willing to take me in, which is more than what I can say for the rest of Tevinter. I'm not asking you or anyone to understand or forgive. I don't give a damn whether you do either, for I shall never understand or forgive myself for this idiocy."

Dorian turned back to look at him. "Didn't you once tell me that I could do without a reputation if I was only brave enough?"

"It doesn't make the loneliness easier to bear."

He left the dungeons, throwing a hateful glare at the guard as he passed. He wanted to retreat back to the library where it was safe, where he could ignore everyone and not have to think, but he found his little corner already occupied. Dorian scowled at Mother Giselle as she regarded him coolly. "I hope your conversation with the prisoners was an enlightening one." Out of everyone who protested his presence, Mother Giselle was the most subtle. She was a leader here, the same as Evelyn, but she did not command armies. She tended the souls of her flock, brought them comfort during these end times, and promised them a seat at the Maker's side. Dorian was a symbol of everything she stood against. He was a Tevinter mage-- a _Magister_ , and Dorian could explain to her the difference between a Magister and an Altus until he was blue in the face for all the good it would do. His kind murdered the Maker's Bride, his kind brought the darkspawn into their world when they tore into the Fade and stormed the Maker's Golden City. In her eyes, he was guilty by association.

Dorian sneered. "Oh, certainly. We had tea and cookies and they told me all about the latest blood rituals currently popular in Minrathous."

"I don't know what you think you're doing!" She snapped.

"I'm being clucked at by a hen, evidently!"

"Don't play the fool with me, young man."

Dorian pushed past her and picked up the book he had left in his chair. "If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you."

"Your glib tongue does you no credit."

Dorian turned back to her, a lascivious leer on his face. "You'd be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, Your Reverence."

A look of disgust crossed her face as her eyes raked over him, as though he were little more than a worm. Dorian clutched his book and strode out of the library. He was not bothered. Fool though he might be, Rilienus was right: Dorian could survive without a reputation, so long as he was brave enough. And he would be brave. He didn't need Cullen or Evelyn or Felix. He was doing just fine on his own. Loneliness would not destroy him, and besides there were ways to combat it. This aching emptiness could be filled and Dorian knew exactly where to go to do that.

After making a few discreet inquiries Dorian found the room he was looking for. He knocked quickly, hoping the man hadn't left yet. The look of surprise that crossed Francesco's face when he opened the door was soon replaced with an attractive smile. "So, how about a tour of your room?" Dorian asked. Francesco let him inside and closed the door behind him.

In the morning Dorian could hear the sounds of the courtyard filter up through the open window of Francesco's room. There was the whistle of an axe falling through the air, the crunching of bone and the dull thud when the blade hit the executioner's block. The crowd erupted into cheers and Dorian clung tighter to the sleeping man beside him as he stared across the little room to the tree just outside the window, watching the leaves wave in the cool breeze.


	12. Chapter 12

One bright autumn morning, the Iron Bull appeared in Dorian's room with a satchel in his hand. "What's this?" Dorian asked, eager curiosity at war with his suspicion. The Qunari just smiled and placed the package on his bed and, after digging through the dirty sack, Dorian spied a cloak that made him give out a cry when he reached for it. Starved for the sight, much less the touch, of new clothes, it seemed to be the most extravagant cloak Dorian had ever seen. It was made of black samite and lined with dark green velvet, which brought out his complexion quite nicely.

"How do I look?" He asked, throwing the hood over his head and turning around for the Bull's benefit, but he knew he looked handsome even before he saw confirmation in the Qunari's eye. "Where did you get this, Bull? Whose is it? I'll buy it. I'll give you every coin I've got for it."

"It's your cloak," he said. "Spoils of war. You remember when we took Griffin Wing Keep? I looted it from a Venatori during the fight and thought you might like to have it."

How could he not remember the battle? Their alliance with the Champion of Kirkwall had paid off. He had introduced the Inquisition to Warden Alistair, one of the heroes of the Fifth Blight. Alistair had told them everything he knew about the Wardens' disappearance. The Grey Wardens were an ancient order dedicated to fighting the ever-encroaching darkspawn. There were many legends about them: some said that any Grey Warden who did not fall in battle was doomed to become a darkspawn himself, others stated that they were already half-darkspawn. The truth was somewhere in-between.

When Alistair told them just how exactly the Grey Wardens came to be, Dorian was angry. Here had been the cure to Felix's illness, right under their noses! The Grey Wardens took the Taint into their body, but instead of wasting away from the sickness, they mastered it. The Blight was not cured, of course. It would eventually kill them in the end, but not for decades. He seethed at the Wardens' selfishness in keeping this knowledge secret. If only he had known, Felix might have lived. But then... maybe it was better he hadn't. The rumors were right about one thing: eventually, every Grey Warden would begin to hear the call of the old gods, just as the darkspawn did, and slowly they would transform into the very thing they fought against. But Corypheus was no ordinary darkspawn. The shared Taint between the Wardens and the Blighted Magister left them susceptible to his influence. Alistair explained that because of him, the Calling now rippled through that link like a death knell. If every Grey Warden died then who would stop the darkspawn? It was a question that weighed heavily on their minds, and so the Wardens had turned to Tevinter, to blood magic, and right into Corypheus's waiting arms. Alistair pointed them toward the Western Approach, to Griffin Wing Keep and Adamant Fortress, where Corypheus's servant Erimond fed them lies and taught them dangerous spells, until they were nothing more than puppets on a string. He convinced them of his plan to sunder the Veil, to summon a demon army and forge into the Deep Roads to eliminate every darkspawn the Wardens came across, never knowing that they were playing right into Corypheus's hands. In summoning the demons, the Wardens became mindless thralls. Erimond was everything that Dorian hated about Tevinter and he longed to tear that smirk off his face.

Still, the Grey Wardens were heroes and now they were to fight them. What madness had descended upon the world!

Dorian said nothing, a frown still tugging at his lips at the thought of Erimond. But as he looked at his reflection in the mirror it soon washed away into a smile. Just at this moment, nothing mattered to him except that he looked utterly charming in the first pretty thing he owned in half a year. And then his smile faded. He took in the crisp fabric, the pristine color. The Bull did not loot this. "Oh? I see no holes or blood splatters. It looks brand new."

The Iron Bull shrugged, completely unconcerned that he had been caught in a lie. "If you don't want it, I'm sure someone else will appreciate it." His large grey hands reached up to unclasp the hook from underneath Dorian's chin. Dorian grasped the edges of the cloak, wrapping it around himself, and squirmed away.

"Oh, no you don't! You said it was mine!"

The Iron Bull laughed at his antics. "I knew your vanity would win out in the end."

Dorian very nearly stuck his tongue out. Maker, he'd been spending too much time with these Southerners. They were starting to be a bad influence. "How much was it? I have only twenty silvers but next month--"

"Eh, don't worry about it. It's a gift."

The old fear began to creep its way into his heart again. To accept such a gift from a man... it would have been unthinkable to do so in Tevinter. People would wonder who had given it and -- more importantly -- what he had done to earn it. It was a mark of property, of ownership. He looked at his reflection through the corner of his eye. He looked like Dorian Pavus again, the Dorian who had not a care in the world, who had slaves to take care of him, and pretty baubles to distract him, and a father who loved him. It felt good being that Dorian again. Easier. He refused to give up the cloak. "I'll-- I'll give you the twenty silvers--"

"I wouldn't accept it."

Dorian huffed at the man's stubbornness. "Whatever are you trying to do to me?"

The Qunari gave a wide, lecherous grin, too exaggerated to be anything but a joke and more befitting the clownish villain of one of Cassandra's tawdry romance novels. "I'm tempting you with fine gifts until your delicate ideals are worn away and you are at my mercy." He then winked and Dorian burst into laughter.

"If anyone asks I'll say I paid one hundred gold royals for it. That way all the busybodies can cluck their tongues and gossip about Tevinter extravagance. Everyone wins! But, really, you mustn't bring me anything else so expensive. What would Francesco say?"

The Iron Bull quirked a brow at him. "I thought you two were just passing time. Like with that merchant last week, or the stuffy Orlesian bureaucrat who rode through here a couple days ago, or--"

"Yes, that's quite enough of that," Dorian snapped. "I should have known you'd be incapable of doing something kind and decent without mocking me first."

"What makes you think I did it to be kind? You said it yourself numerous times: I'm a savage, a beast. Always remember, mercenaries never do anything without expecting something in return. I always get paid." His eye lingered on Dorian's lips.

The words sent a shiver up his spine as excitement filled him. So, all that flirting and now the Iron Bull had finally decided to make a move. Perhaps he had spent night after night in the tavern watching Dorian with other men, seething in jealousy. Of course, he still didn't know if he was going to allow the Bull into his bed or not. He had never had a Qunari lover before and he burned to know what it was like, but then the Iron Bull was an arrogant cad if Dorian ever met one. It would be nice to knock him down a few pegs.

But the Bull made no move to take him. Dorian gave him a sidelong glance and murmured encouragingly, "So you always get paid, do you? And what do you expect to get from me?"

"That remains to be seen."

"Well, if you think I'm going to sleep with you for a cloak, I won't." His lips twisted into a flirtatious smile that seemed to amuse the Bull to no end.

"I don't 'sleep' with people. I _fuck_ them. I take them apart with my hands, work them over until they can't even remember their own names, make them scream and whimper and cry for more. These big muscled hands would tear those robes off while you struggled, helpless in my grip: I. Would. Conquer. You."

"As if I'd let you!" Dorian had intended for his words to be scathing, but instead they were breathless.

"Then why is your mouth all puckered up in that ridiculous way like you expect to be kissed?"

"Oh!" He cried out, losing his temper, fire licking his fingers. "You are the most barbaric person I have ever met and I don't care if I never lay eyes on you again!"

The Iron Bull grinned. "If you really felt that way, you’d toss the cloak into the gutter. What a passion you are in. I like it! Stoke those fires, big guy! Come on, Dorian, throw the cloak out the window and show me what you think of me and my presents."

"Don't you dare touch this cloak," he said, clutching at the edges again and retreating.

Dorian looked up into his eye and saw so much amusement in its depths that he couldn't help but laugh. What a tease he was and how exasperating! The Iron Bull grinned. "You laugh, but I think I tempt you more than you'd like to admit. You carry this picture of the Qunari in your mind, like you see us as this forbidden, terrible thing... and you're inclined to do the forbidden. All I'm saying is, you ever want to explore that, my door's always open."

"That's rather presumptuous of you," Dorian stated, turning his back to him as he regarded himself pleasedly in the mirror once again, thinking he would wear it this very afternoon and send all the old nags into a tizzy over it.

The reaction was just as Dorian had expected. The most popular theory was that Commander Cullen had given it to him for _services rendered_. As much as Dorian would love for that to be the case, the idea was so ridiculous as to be laughable. As much as he adored the man, Cullen was every bit the Fereldan barbarian Tevinter warned him about. He had never even seen Dwarven indoor plumbing before his transfer to Kirkwall, and even then he refused to go near a toilet with a flush. How charmingly archaic and superstitious he could be! It was completely out of the question that Cullen could look at this cloak and see anything but a colossal waste of time and resources. Of course, Dorian wouldn't have thought the Iron Bull capable of such a gesture either. Who would have guessed that the man who proudly wore a repurposed circus tent would have such good taste? At any rate, Dorian refused to let anyone make him feel ashamed for it. The cloak made him happy and he wasn't going to give it up just because it offended these Southerners' delicate sensibilities.

Most days, he kept it folded up in his trunk. It was the one nice thing he owned; he wasn't going to ruin it. Instead, he wore the heavy, Fereldan-style cloak that Evelyn had given him as promised. It was practical, utilitarian, and utterly plain. He would think it was some sort of punishment, but, no, Evelyn was really just that boring. She and the Commander were perfect for each other, really.

The rough cloak from Evelyn was draped across a chair as Dorian fiddled with his pack. He could hear Cullen barking orders at his soldiers in preparation for the long march ahead of them. They were looking at several weeks worth of hard journeying across war-torn Orlais to Adamant Fortress, the ancient stronghold of the Grey Wardens. The complexity involved in such a campaign was something that Dorian had never considered before. It wasn't just the men that needed to be moved, but supplies, horses, trebuchets, food, weapons. Every single detail had to be carefully planned. Too little food and the men couldn't eat, too much and it spoiled, wasting valuable resources. There was a single wagon that carried nothing but boots, since so many soldiers were likely to wear theirs out before they even reached Adamant. And then there was the weather. Cullen was nearly tearing his hair out worrying about the coming winter. A blizzard could mean the death of them. The mountain roads would become impassible, leaving the Inquisitor and her army cut off from Skyhold if she was unable to return in time. They could not wait until spring, not with the threat of a demon army hanging over their heads. The burden Cullen shouldered was a heavy one, and not for the first time Dorian was amazed at his ability to remain strong under pressure.

"Ready?" Evelyn asked, her head peeking inside the room. Dorian nodded and threw on his cloak and pack. The Inquisitor's face was chalky with fear and worry; this wasn't some skirmish in the Hinterlands. This was a campaign, a war that thousands were guaranteed to lose their lives in. They stepped out into the dark, cold morning where her army waited. Evelyn climbed onto her horse and rode out to the front. Dorian was about to join her when Cullen grabbed hold of the reigns, pulling his horse back and away from the soldiers so that he could whisper to him without being overheard. Dorian's heart thudded wildly at the expression on the Commander's face. He was beautiful and grim and haunted; Dorian would give him anything if it meant bringing the light back into his eyes. "I need to ask you something," Cullen said. "Something that will make my mind easier during the fight."

"What is it?" Dorian asked, ready to promise the sun.

"Will you look after Evelyn for me?"

"Look after the Inquisitor?" His heart sank with bitter disappointment. This moment was his moment with Cullen, his alone. And yet, though Evelyn was absent, her pale shadow lay between them.

"Yes, she doesn't have the experience that you do. I know Vivienne and the Iron Bull will help her when needed, but I trust _you_. She's come a long way, but if she was one of my soldiers... I don't know if I would have included her in this mission. But she's our Herald and Inquisitor, the people need her to lead the charge. If she doesn't survive this battle, then the Inquisition will fall. Everyone else is expendable, including myself. Will you promise me?"

"Of course."

A visible weight seemed to lift from Cullen's shoulders. Relief washed over his face and he let go of the reigns, allowing Dorian to join Evelyn at the front. The Commander did not notice the dark, suspicious glances from his soldiers at their hushed and hurried conversation, but Dorian did. He sneered down at them from his mount, playing up the arrogant Tevinter stereotype. They had already made up their minds about him, might as well give them what they want. It was amusing to see them scowl and huff, completely paralyzed to do anything about their dislike.

To Dorian had come that pleasant intoxication peculiar to those whose lives are a deliberate slap in the face of polite society. He said and did exactly as he pleased, and told anyone who didn't like it to go to the Void. It was funny; in Tevinter, even at his wildest, he could not have dreamed of behaving as he did now. The reproving stares from Tevinter's Old Guard had been enough to curb his actions. Their approval -- his _father's_ approval -- had been so important to him. But here there was no hope of that, it was completely unattainable. No matter what he did, these Southerners would always hate him. Dorian had never felt so free, or so adrift. He could do anything and it would not matter.

The only exception to this was Evelyn and Cullen, of course. She smiled at him as he came up beside her, pleased to have his company, ignorant of the way her reputation suffered from continuing to indulge him. She seemed incredibly foolish to Dorian then. Evelyn stood to lose everything, unlike Dorian who had nothing left that these Southerners could take from him. If she wanted to keep the loyalty of her men, then she needed to get over the guilt she felt over leaving him behind in Redcliffe. It was the only sensible thing to do. But when had _he_ ever done the sensible thing? If he had he wouldn't be here in the first place. Dorian swallowed the sigh that threatened to escape when Evelyn began to chatter at him about something endlessly dull in an attempt to keep their minds off the coming battle.

* * *

Dorian watched with mounting horror as their soldiers swarmed around the fortress like ants rushing over a fresh kill. He could hear arrows whistling through the air and screams suddenly quieting to a soft gurgle, horses braying as they fell over, their intestines spilling out across the hot sand. Everywhere people were dying and Dorian couldn't stop his hands from shaking. Evelyn reached over to grasp hold of him. She was white and trembling, her eyes staring up at the twin moons and whispering a near-silent prayer. Cullen brought his arm down, and the trebuchets launched cannonball after cannonball into Adamant's stone walls. Men fell to their deaths, impaled on pikes, their necks broken by the hard ground and trampled underneath hundreds of marching boots. Inquisition soldiers heaved as they pushed a battering ram into the towering fortress gates again and again, while the Wardens bombarded them with heavy stones from the battlements above them. Dorian saw one of their lieutenants collapse onto the ground. Nothing remained of his head except pulpy bits of skull and hair, the rest smashed beneath a red-painted boulder. At long last the doors splintered apart and Cullen was yelling, "Now, now, now! Go!"

That was their cue. Iron Bull led the charge, cutting a bloody path through the fortress as demon and Warden alike fell to his greataxe. Dorian followed him in his wake, Vivienne at his side. Together they rained down fire and ice, their spells ripping through their enemies as painfully as any sword. It took Dorian a moment to realize that Evelyn was not with them. He turned around and saw her lingering by the broken door, her staff gripped white-knuckled to her chest, eyes wild as she took in the carnage that surrounded her. "Inquisitor!" He screamed. "We need you!" And like that the spell broke. She raced towards them, hurling lightning from her fingertips, letting it dance from Warden to Warden.

Dorian coughed as sand and soot filled his lungs. He squinted against the falling ash, trying to pinpoint the enemy among their soldiers in the darkness. Through the haze of smoke, Dorian spotted Hawke and Alistair in the distance. "She's doing it!" Alistair called out. "She's actually doing it! Warden-Commander Clarel is tearing open the Veil! We need to hurry!"

The six of them ran through the fortress, but by the time they reached the Warden-Commander it was too late. A large rift rippled to life in the middle of the tower and Warden-Commander Clarel stood there beside Erimond, transfixed, her fingers lax around her staff, as the enormity of her actions overcame her.

A terrible shrieking suddenly filled the air and Dorian looked up to see the Blighted dragon that had rained down fire onto Haven, wiping it from the face of the earth. A large grey arm threw Dorian and Vivienne into Evelyn, pushing them back until they were safely tucked between a stone alcove and the Iron Bull's bulk. Warden-Commander Clarel paid no attention to the beast as she advanced upon Erimond. "You! You've destroyed the Grey Wardens!" She hissed as she sent him flying across the tower with a wave of her staff.

The Tevinter was helpless against her frothing rage, and yet still he did not back down. He laughed against the hard stone as he struggled to his knees. "You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch. All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes and you couldn't wait to get your hands bloody."

The Warden-Commander was the living embodiment of Wrath as she swung her staff down. But before she could strike the finishing blow, the dragon swooped down like a shadow and sank its teeth into her stomach. It shook its head, tossing her about like a puppy with a toy, before flinging her to the ground. She landed on her back, blood pooling all around her, and yet he could see her move, trying desperately to turn and get on her knees. Dorian spared her not another thought, for the dragon slowly turned towards them. It lowered its head and stepped, almost gingerly, forward. It was so close each huff of breath felt like a gust of wind. It leapt, its jaws opened wide, and then a flash of brilliant light filled his vision. The Warden-Commander let loose a desperate burst of lightning, striking the beast in its soft underbelly and sending it hurtling face first into the ancient stone in front of them.

When the dragon crashed, so did the tower. But for the grace of the Maker had the fortress stood for so long. The stone gave way, and the dragon toppled into the darkness below. Dorian grabbed hold of Evelyn's wrist, the Bull pulling him by the collar of his robe, the Qunari's other arm already underneath Vivienne to toss her clear across the tower to safety even as Hawke and Alistair slipped away into the darkness. But the ground crumbled, and Dorian will never forget the feeling of trying to take another step, the expectation of hard ground standing firm beneath his feet so familiar that when it is ripped away-- when your foot continues to press down, down, down in search of something to stand on only to realize it is gone and there is _nothing_ keeping you up. Dorian watched what remained of the tower fall from his grasp as he plummeted through the air. He saw the Iron Bull next to him, twisted up, his head pointing straight down and his feet kicking uselessly above him. Dorian thought that when they landed, his horns would sink into the earth, like an upside down Qunari tree. He laughed, the hysteria making his voice sharp and wild, and screwed his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, he found himself sitting at his old desk in the Circle. He ran his fingers along the graffiti that he had carved into it when he was eleven. All around him was the dismal, green landscape of the Fade. Had he died then and was now banished to the Void to wander for all eternity? But no, there was Evelyn, near Alistair and Hawke, standing upside down and looking rather bewildered by everything. Surely the Maker would not cast down His own Herald. She must have used her mark to open another rift, but instead of drawing demons out, it pulled them in.

Evelyn suddenly fell to the ground, and as she pulled her shaking legs under her she stared in horror at Vivienne and Dorian. They were not simply visiting the Fade in their dreams, but were actually physically inside the Fade. The last time that had happened, the Golden City had been corrupted and the Magisters of Old -- _Corypheus_ \-- returned to the world as the first darkspawn. As mages, they understood just how grave the situation was. The Iron Bull paced like a caged, restless animal. "Oh, this is shitty. I'll fight whatever you give me, Boss, but nobody said nothing about getting dragged through the ass end of Demon Town."

"There's the rift the Wardens created to summon their demon army," Evelyn stated, pointing at the large green tear that ripped through the sky. "Maybe we can escape the same way? It's better than staying here, waiting for demons to find us, anyway."

"Be careful, darling. There is something else here with us. Something powerful."

They took their first hesitant steps into the Fade, too afraid that the entire world would collapse and disintegrate beneath their feet like a waking dream. Without thinking, they fell into line. Alistair and Hawke led the procession, while Iron Bull herded the mages from behind, his knuckles rapidly turning from grey to white as he clutched his axe against his chest. They had barely gone more than a few feet when a woman shimmered into view, her long skirts rustling through the twisting fog that hid her feet. Dorian had never seen her face, but he recognized the armaments she had adorned herself with: the white headdress, the golden raiments. The White Divine strolled toward them as though they were all having a pleasant walk through a park. "I greet you, Warden. And you, Champion."

"Divine Justinia." The words that escaped Evelyn's mouth were no louder than a whisper. Dorian had heard the story, of course, everyone had heard the story, though he had never dared to ask Evelyn about it since every time the subject was broached her face blanched and she looked near enough to faint. But not even his being a dreaded Tevinter mage could keep people from telling him of how when the Temple of Sacred Ashes was destroyed in the great cataclysm that tore the sky asunder and ripped apart the fabric of the Fade, Evelyn alone had survived. She had walked out of the rift, unharmed, a strange woman shining brilliantly behind her. Andraste. And Evelyn, the Herald of Andraste, with her Mark on her hand that allowed her to close the rifts Corypheus had wrought. No one knew what had happened to the White Divine, the one who had worked so hard to bring the mages and Templars together at the Temple in hopes of reaching an accord, not even Evelyn. And now here she was, whole and hale and Dorian knew with a wrench of his heart that this was not the Divine. "Back at Haven, I saw... I thought I saw... how can you be here?"

"I don't recall the Divine glowing," Alistair warned Evelyn. "In my experience, that's something spirits do."

"You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive in the Fade, yourselves. In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have." She smiled at them as though she had spoken a cunning witticism. In truth, she could easily -- and very quickly -- expose herself as the spirit she was rather than parade about with this face she had taken.

Hawke was quick to point out the same thing. "Surely you can understand our concerns and explain what you are."

"I am here to help you." She turned her gaze onto the Inquisitor, who looked at her with rapture and Dorian wanted to scream, _Fool! Don't let yourself be taken in! Are you a harrowed mage or not?! You're acting like some fresh-faced apprentice!_ "You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor."

"No. I don't."

"The memories you have lost were taken by the demon that serves Corypheus. It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work."

Alistair's face twisted. "I'd like to have a few words with this Nightmare about that."

"You will have your chance, brave Warden. This place of darkness is its lair."

"Can you help us get out of the Fade?"

"That is why I found you. When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it. These are your memories, Inquisitor." The Divine reached out with one thin, withered hand and Dorian stepped forward to rend it from her body with his glaive before it could touch the Inquisitor. But something sparked between them, far quicker than Dorian thought possible, and he watched with horror as Evelyn's eyes rolled upward, her expression sinking into one of rapture. He blinked and it was gone. Evelyn breathed deep, her skin paler than he had ever seen it, cheeks sunken into hollows as she looked past the Fade into whatever horrifying scene the Divine had placed in her brain. The Divine retreated, her figure growing light and airy, shining like the sun. "Your Mark did not come from Andraste. It came from the orb Corypheus used in his ritual. Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City. Not for the Old Gods, but himself. When you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor upon you instead."

Evelyn closed her eyes, her expression beatific. Peaceful.

"You must make haste," the Divine said. "I will prepare the way ahead." She lifted her body into the sky, light piercing through the pores in her face and hands, tearing through her robes until her skin melted away and a figure clothed in light hovered above them instead. She flitted through the Fade, disappearing and reappearing at will, like a wisp in the forest. Evelyn chased after her and Dorian could only look at the Iron Bull helplessly as they followed after.

Their journey through the Fade was fraught with demons. They clawed at the edge of Dorian's mind just as they cut into his body, trying to find their way inside. But he had some measure of protection, at least. He had endured similar experiences before, as all mages had. The Iron Bull had no such luxury. He spun wildly around, the Fear demons taunting him with visions of his body being cracked open for a spirit to slip inside and wear like suit, of losing his mind and becoming a true savage as his Tal-Vashoth brothers had done. The Qunari were a fierce, highly disciplined people. The Bull rebelled against that just as much as Dorian rebelled against his own homeland. And yet, still the fear lingered inside him that one day he would go too far, that he would turn from the Qun and become a mindless beast. A Tal-Vashoth. Dorian felt a rush of pity for this man, whom he had never known to be anything other than heedless and untroubled. All of the Qunari's fears were laid bear and he was now more real to Dorian than ever before. He was something more than the funny, flirty barbarian that he traded barbs with in the tavern in an attempt to distract himself from the thin-lipped gruffness and cold shoulders of the other patrons.

But the Iron Bull was not the only one who was tormented. The demons appeared to Dorian as beautiful men, all with the same face, Felix's face, and in their hands were shiny, red apples begging to be bitten, promises of knowledge, of good and evil, contained within the red flesh. Dorian might have been tempted, if not for the whispers of spirits sweeping through the Fade, following them as they inched towards the rift... _Greetings, Dorian... It is Dorian, isn't it? For a moment, I mistook you for your father._ He would never be like Halward. Dorian seethed and noticed the Bull's sharp gaze on him, questioning, probing. Humiliation churned his insides as everything he kept locked inside was laid bare before the man. All of those feelings of sympathy he had had for the Bull quickly evaporated. "Watch your left," he snapped at the Qunari as he brought his staff down on a demon's head, and Felix's handsome face disappeared with an agonized cry in a whiff of green smoke.

"Oh, Maker..."

Dorian turned at the sound of Evelyn's voice. Before them was the rift and the creature who ruled this part of the Fade like its king. It was Nightmare, a demon greater than Fear, more powerful than Terror. It was monstrously large, faceless and sitting like a spider waiting to devour them, its many legs twisting and warping as its mouth opened in hunger. "How do we get by?" Alistair asked.

"Go. I'll cover you," Hawke answered.

Alistair shook his head and planted his feet as he turned to face him. "No. The Wardens caused this mess. A Warden must-"

"A Warden must help them rebuild! That's _your_ job!" And with that Hawke shoved Alistair and Evelyn out of the way, pushing them towards the rift as he charged forward. "Safe harbors, Isabela." 

Evelyn could only lay where she had fallen, unable to tear her gaze away from Hawke. Dorian reached down and grabbed her by the waist. "Get UP!" He commanded and Evelyn scrambled to get her feet underneath her. Dorian could hear Hawke's shout, but he refused to look back. He kept his eyes on the green tear, his hands twisting in the fabric of Evelyn's shirt as he half-dragged her towards it. He only breathed again when he felt the cool night air on his face. They tumbled through the rift and found Inquisition and Grey Wardens alike standing there with open mouths in awe of the woman who had escaped death three times. Evelyn surveyed the thousands of men and women who stared up at her, saw the numinous devotion in their faces, and blanched. She had stepped out of the green light, whole and unscathed once more, which had only confirmed her divinity in their eyes. Nothing she said now could change that for them.

"What do we do now?" 

Evelyn turned her eyes onto the Grey Warden who had asked the tremulous question. All at once the pale, trembling lips tightened and a hard, cold look came over her face. It reminded Dorian of the look she had given him when they had first met at the Redcliffe Chantry, back when she thought him nothing more than a Tevinter, a blood mage. "You leave," she answered. "You're still vulnerable to Corypheus... and we've lost enough people already fighting corrupted Wardens. By the authority of the Inquisition, you are banished from southern Thedas. Alistair will oversee your return to the Warden Fortress at Weisshaupt."

"A wise decision, my dear," Vivienne murmured approvingly as Evelyn stepped down and marched through the ranks, battle-hardened soldiers parting in the face of this short, mousy woman.

The Iron Bull shook his head. "Hope we don't need them later."

Dorian was unhappy with Evelyn's decision. He tried to speak with her about it on the journey back, but all she would say was, "I cannot abide blood magic." She seemed to be avoiding him, and he had grown used to her presence by his side. He found himself entirely too reliant on her steady, calming ways. When she did speak, it was only to Vivienne. The two held secret conferences that none of her companions or advisors were privy to. The Iron Bull was of no help, either. He too desired to be alone with his thoughts and a tankard of some horrible Qunari brew that smelled like boot polish. Only Cullen spent time with him, and that was because he found himself on the bitter end of Evelyn's cold silences as well. Dorian forced himself to laugh as he played chess with the Commander in his tent-- though, really, only Dorian played while Cullen brooded. The mage won every game, and he didn't even need to cheat to do it.

It was only when they had set up camp at the base of the Frostback Mountains, one of their scouts returning with a delighted grin and a shout "The roads all clear!", did Evelyn deign to speak to him.

"Dorian?" She called, peeking her head into his tent. "I need to talk to you. Is it alright if I come in?"

Dorian refused to look up from his book. He could be damnably petty when he wanted. "Oh? Now you want to talk?"

With a rush she pushed into his tent and collapsed at his side. "Oh, don't be angry with me! I didn't mean to upset you! I just needed time to think. I-- I know about the promise Cullen made you swear to."

Dorian dropped his book, ready to defend the Commander, even from his lover if need be. "It was only because you're too important to the Inquisition, it's not like he doesn't think you're capable--"

"But that's exactly it, isn't it?" Evelyn broke in, distress written across her face. "I know I'm not very good at fighting, I was never trained in it. Everyone is looking to me to lead them, and... and I know I've failed them. I haven't been the leader I should be, the one they need. That's going to change. Adamant has taught me that there is a time and a place for mercy; now is not that time. From now on, I'm going to be strong. I can't let the others continue to make the hard decisions for me."

Dorian might have believed her, if she hadn't looked so terrified at the thought.


	13. Chapter 13

Barely a week had passed since they returned from Adamant Fortress. News of what had happened had been contradictory. There were so many different rumors flying around, but the one that was on everyone's lips was that the White Divine herself had guided Evelyn to safety while she had been trapped in the Fade, rather than the false-faced spirit it truly was. To many, Evelyn's divinity was second only to the Maker's Bride. The fact that it had been a Tevinter blood mage who had sown discord among the Grey Wardens was not well known until it came time to pass judgment on Erimond. As his crimes were read aloud, a ripple of shock and hatred passed through the crowd.

Dorian sat with Vivienne to watch the proceedings from her balcony. It had surprised him when she extended an invitation to watch the trial with her instead of down below with the rest of the onlookers; they weren't exactly friends, after all. Even more surprising was that Solas had been given an invitation as well, and Vivienne disliked him more than Dorian. The elven apostate had declined, of course, but it seemed odd that she would even offer in the first place.

Vivienne and Evelyn were of one mind as of late. Whatever they had discussed during the long trek from Orlais had set them both on edge. Like a pair of overwrought mothers, they hounded the mages, demanding to know where they were going and for how long and who would be accompanying them. Solas, Petra, Kinnon... none of them could escape their watchful eyes. Dorian, especially, was guarded over. Rarely an hour passed that one or both did not spend it in his company. It was incredibly insulting. Did they think he was going to turn to blood magic and unleash a demon army upon them? Just because he and Erimond shared the same homeland did not mean they were alike. He had expected more understanding from his fellow mages, even if they were Southerners.

"Adamant's influence continues, Your Worship," spoke Josephine, Skyhold's ambassador, her clear voice ringing through the entire Hall. "I submit Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, who remains loyal to Corypheus."

Inquisition soldiers dragged Erimond through the Hall before throwing him none-too-gently at the Inquisitor's feet. "We found him alive, offering extreme resistance, likely because the Order will ask for his head. In more colorful terms. To say nothing of justice you might personally require for what was suffered in the Fade."

"Many places felt the pain of Adamant," Evelyn spoke evenly. "You will answer for a great deal."

"I recognize none of this proceeding. You have no authority to judge me." Erimond was still as arrogant as ever and there was a mad, feverish glint to his eyes.

"On the contrary, many officials have communicated that they will defer to the Inquisitor on this matter."

Erimond snorted. "Because they fear. Not _just_ Corypheus, but Tevinter, rightful ruler of every piece of ground you've trod in your pathetic life. I serve a living God. Bring down your blades and free me from the physical. Glory awaits me."

"How charming your people are," Vivienne remarked as she took a sip of her wine.

Dorian threw back his own without a grimace, downing it in one go. Vivienne smiled that shark-like grin as she watched him, clearly reveling in his discomfort. "My, what manners! For a moment there, I mistook you for a proper Southern barbarian. Are you sure that is wine and not ale that you are drinking?"

"It might as well be for all the taste," Dorian retorted. "What a terrible selection you have, First Enchanter." She just chuckled and turned back to the scene in front of her.

Evelyn stared at Erimond, her face white and pallid, her lips pressed into a thin line. When she spoke there was a slight quiver to her voice, but it was loud and unmistakable. "You are the worst of us. The damage you have done is beyond all reckoning. A mage's crime, a mage's punishment. Lord Livius Erimond, I deny you death. Tranquility."

At first, Dorian thought he must have misheard. Surely Evelyn did not just sentence a man to a fate worse than death. Better to cut his head off now, then turn him Tranquil. But no, it was true, and Dorian watched with sickening horror as Erimond was dragged away. "You... You cannot! I am a lord, you pissants! I will not lose myself!"

"Good girl," Vivienne murmured darkly, quickly swallowing what was left of her wine.

Dorian rounded on her. "You approve of this?"

"Darling, I was the one who suggested it. I knew something had to be done with him. Execution may have been preferable, but the Inquisitor needed to make a statement. She needs to assure her Templar allies that even though she is a mage she is one of them. What did you think was going on in those meetings during the trip back from Orlais? We knew that once word got out of Erimond's crime the Templars would be difficult to control. Do not worry, I assure you Erimond will be well taken care of."

"That's not the point!" Dorian protested. "No one has the right to take away a person's emotions!"

Vivienne laughed, her voice hard and mocking. "But it is perfectly alright to take away someone's freedom? Or is there something about Tevinter slavery that I don't understand?"

"That's different!"

"Is it? Tell me, how many slaves did your family own? I bet you thought they enjoyed working for you. You probably thought they were like members of the family, as much as any slave could be, poor dear. But I'm sure, if they had the chance, they would have cut your throat while you were sleeping and not shed a single tear over it."

The image of Cyrion lying dead on the floor, blood all around, neck cut wide open rushed through Dorian's mind. His mouth grew dry and the words strangled in his throat. Unable to say anything else, he stormed down the stairs, pushing his way through the crowd. He saw Evelyn duck into an antechamber, her entire body trembling, and he followed after her.

"How could you do it?" Dorian demanded as he closed the door behind him. Evelyn nearly jumped out of her skin as she whirled around to face him. "You're a mage! How could _you_ condemn someone to Tranquility?!"

"You don't understand," Evelyn protested. She wringed her hands together, looking at everything but his face. "You don't know what Templars are like. I didn't have a choice."

"You did! Did you get as much sadistic pleasure out of it as your precious Templars do, or did you just do it in hopes they might pat you on the head like a good dog?"

"Dorian!" Anguish twisted her mousy features into something ugly. Her eyes watered and for a moment Dorian was sure she was going to cry, but she pushed it back, swallowing the tears and looked up at him imploringly. "I did it for you, Dorian, for all of us mages! Think, Dorian. There are thousands of Templars in our ranks, Templars who have been off of lyrium for months now and are angry and half-crazed with need of it. What happened at Adamant will feel like a slap in the face to them. A Tevinter blood mage corrupted the Wardens. They will want blood. I had to give it to them. Better to turn a blood mage Tranquil then have them attack you or Vivienne or Solas or any of the other mages here. You especially are vulnerable. You're a Tevinter, they see you as the enemy. So I made the hard choice."

"It was the wrong one!" Dorian insisted.

Evelyn nodded, looking much older than her thirty years should allow. "That may be. But if it helps keep you safe then I would do it again in a heartbeat."

The words plucked him harder then he would admit. She reminded him too much of his father just then, turning to the evil and the profane to 'help' him. They mixed with memories of Cyrion until he was quite certain he was about to vomit. Dorian turned swiftly on his heel, unable to bear her presence any longer. Evelyn reached out for him, grabbing hold of his sleeve and pulling him back. "Where are you going?" She asked. "Not to the tavern, surely! It's too dangerous! Stay in the Main Hall with me and Vivienne until the Templars have cooled down some."

"What do I have to fear from Templars when your cunning plan has soothed their ire?" Dorian snapped. "Or perhaps you admit that there is no controlling them! Everything you did today was all in vain!"

Evelyn drew herself up to her full height -- all five feet, two inches -- and folded her arms. "As the Inquisitor, I forbid you from venturing outside the Main Hall, with the exception of the chantry and its gardens, for the seeable future."

It was exactly the wrong thing she could have done. Hot, biting anger boiled inside Dorian and he unleashed upon her the full fury of his tongue. He raged at Evelyn at the top of his voice, declared that he would walk to the tavern and to the stables and clear across the Frostback Mountains if he wanted, he would not be treated like a naughty, simple-minded child. He would carry his staff and set alight any Templar who dared threaten him. He had killed Templars before and he would love, yes, love to kill another. He would--

Evelyn broke down in the face of all this, her stern façade melting into fluttering hands and haggard pleading. "Oh, you must not risk yourself! I should die if anything happened to you! Oh, please--"

"You can't stop me!" The same breakneck, headlong determination that had seen him through Tevinter and the Free Marches and Ferelden was now pushing him.

"I'll ask Cullen to go with you to the tavern if you really want to go!" Evelyn offered, desperate to ease his wrath. "They won't do anything if he's there!"

"You'll do nothing of the kind! I won't have a babysitter and what earthly good would Cullen be if he was worried about you every minute? No, tell him to stay here. He can guard you while you play tea party with Vivienne, like good Circle mages. I'm going and there is nothing you can say that will stop me!"

He stormed through Skyhold and refused to look back when Evelyn called out to him. He didn't particularly want to go to the tavern, but since Evelyn had forbidden it then Dorian had no choice _but_ to go there. The red haze that had overcome his vision blocked out everything. He barely noticed the cold, the quiet emptiness of the courtyard, or the way the servants ducked out of sight when he marched by. He only came back to himself when he threw open the door to the tavern and found some forty-odd Templars staring back at him. Their expressions were hard and stony. Contempt twisted their lips as they looked him up and down. A shiver ran down his spine and he looked about for a familiar face, but not even the Iron Bull and his Chargers were there tonight. _Of course, not with Dalish being what she is_ , Dorian thought as he remembered the Chargers' elven mage. It was too late to turn back now; pride demanded he see this through. He went to the bar and ordered an ale, gulping it down quickly. He was acutely aware of the stares and as soon as he finished he set the glass on the table and walked out.

He would go to the library until everything blew over and, Maker willing, he would also manage to avoid running into Evelyn or Vivienne. Dorian would not be able to bear Evelyn's sympathy anymore than Vivienne's gloating.

Dorian hadn't taken more than a dozen paces from the tavern when he felt a force crash into his back, knocking the breath from his lungs and sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. A cold, icy hand gripped him as he flexed his fingers and nothing happened. No sparks, no fire. He had seen Cassandra perform similar feats while out in the field, her Holy Smite slugging through Venatori mages and stripping them of their power for a time. He had never before known what it had felt like. Tevinter Templars were not trained in such tricks; the Magisters refused to give them any power that might combat their own. His breathing came faster as he realized that he was without his main defense.

But not _completely_ defenseless.

A calloused hand grabbed him by the back of his hair and pulled him roughly to his feet. "Fucking Tevinter blood mage," the drunken Templar spat. "You think we don't know what you're doing? We won't let you corrupt our Herald or the Commander. You're a cancer that needs to be cut out."

Dorian kicked out with his feet, striking the Templar in the knee. The man let go of his hair and swore as he backed off, giving Dorian enough room to grab his staff. He swung out, striking him in the shoulder, but instead of forcing the Templar to his knees, the man grabbed it and twisted, nearly hurling Dorian back down into the ground. Dorian refused to let go, and instead of resisting the Templar's grip, he pushed into it and used the tip of his staff to strike the man in his torso in rapid succession. He only stopped when he heard something snap. A rib, most likely. The Templar gasped and curled into himself, crumpling forward. Dorian wrenched his staff from his limp hands and lifted it to bring the heavy iron shaft down upon his head. The thudding of a half-dozen feet stopped him before he could deliver the blow and he looked up, just in time to see a shield swing down at his face.

The pain was incredible. Blood exploded from his nose and out of his mouth from where he bit down on his tongue. The Templars were yelling at him, screaming, but he couldn't hear them over the ringing in his ears. He was crawling on the ground -- and when did he end up back in the dirt? -- and there was a man straddling his waist, an arm wrapped around his throat, squeezing it shut.

Black dots exploded in front of his eyes and everything was colored a peculiar hazy grey. Then the weight was suddenly gone from his back and Dorian didn't know why, nor did he care, all he could think was, _Thank the Maker, I can breathe_.

Gentle hands wrapped around his shoulders, lifting him up and half-carrying him back to the Main Hall. "I've got you," a voice said and Dorian was surprised when he recognized the thick Antivan accent as belonging to Francesco. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be at Caer Bronach. Dorian pushed the thought away as his mind spun dizzily. He collapsed against Francesco's side, nearly bringing the scout down with him, and the man was forced to throw Dorian bodily over his shoulder and carry him up the stairs to his room. The minutes seemed to slip by before Dorian could catch them; he had the distinct memory of Evelyn fussing over him and a large grey hand resting against his shoulder, but when these things happened and in what order was beyond Dorian. Still the bed was soft and warm, so Dorian didn't trouble himself over it.

He awoke in the morning to a dull throb in the right side of his face. Much of the pain had receded, leaving only a constant, persistent ache along his jaw and cheekbone that only hurt when he tried to breathe through his nose. Dorian immediately pushed himself to feet and rushed over to the mirror to examine the extent of his injuries. He would go back and kill those Templars himself if they managed to leave a scar. Dorian peered at his reflection in the polished glass and his heart sank at the stranger that stared back at him. His face was a mass of bruises, his nose swollen and purple and bandaged. The cuts running along his lips and cheek had been covered over with an elfroot paste so they wouldn't scar, but by the Maker did it smell bad. To top it off, he had the worst shiner he had ever seen.

The door to his room opened and Dorian hoped it was Cullen or Francesco or the Iron Bull there to comfort him, but it was Evelyn. She was carrying a tray with a bowl of porridge and some horrible green concoction she had brewed. "Oh, good, you're awake," she said in a surprisingly chipper voice that struck Dorian as entirely inappropriate. "I've brought you breakfast. Porridge, I'm afraid, but it's soft foods only for the next week. I've already informed the kitchen staff not to give you anything hard to chew, so it's no use going to them. The Templars managed to break your nose and jaw. I was able to heal your jaw with few problems, but it's still very tender and fragile. Your nose... your nose I will continue to work on, don't worry. I promise you I won't leave it crooked. Here, eat up, then drink your potion. That will help with the pain." She was no longer Inquisitor Trevelyan, but Healer Trevelyan, the same mousy, little woman who was used to manhandling stone-faced Templar Knights, pulling out rotten teeth, setting bones, shoving potions down their throats, and patting them when they cried like babes because of it.

"I trust the Templars who had attacked me have been suitably punished? I only ask because I'm thinking of going down to the dungeons to throw things at them. I hear rotten fruit is traditional," Dorian said between bites.

A look of alarm crossed Evelyn's face, but it was quickly smothered and replaced with that same cheerful smile before he could mention it. "They're being seen to, do not worry about it," she evaded. "And no throwing, fruit or otherwise. Light activity only."

"And what of my shining hero? The Antivan scout, Francesco? I thought he was still in Crestwood."

"I asked Leliana to bring in a number of spies from outside of Skyhold -- spies that wouldn't be easily recognized -- and seed them among the Templars as new soldier recruits. They were to report to me if any of the Templars got out of hand."

Dorian was impressed. "That is rather more duplicitous than I thought you capable of."

Evelyn laughed as an embarrassed blush crept along her neck. "You should have seen Vivienne's expression when I suggested the idea to her. I swear she looked like a proud mother watching her babe take its first steps."

"Where is Francesco then? I want to thank him for my rescue personally."

"Out in the field," she answered quickly. "And light activity does not include _thanking_ either."

It didn't take long for Dorian to realize that something was very wrong. Evelyn refused to leave the room, and Dorian had to take refuge behind a screen to dress. She sat placidly in the faded wing-backed chair and chattered at him as she knitted. Dorian had expected comforting, indignation, threats of vengeance. He would have preferred her storming at him, saying that this was just what she had warned him would happen-- anything rather than her take it all so casually and treat his danger as a small moment. She was nice and gentle, of course, but in an absent way as if she had something far more important on her mind.

Vivienne stopped by and took up the chair by his desk, leaving Dorian the bed. He did not invite her inside, that was entirely Evelyn's doing. To be honest, he was not in the mood for the Inquisitor's company either, but every time he hinted that he might prefer to be alone she came up with some excuse to stay. Evelyn's soft voice, tinged with indignation, went on and on as she told of the recent outburst of temperament on the part of the Ladies' Knitting Club for War Widows and Orphans. The whole argument had started when the Fereldan women protested the giving of their proceeds to Orlesian widows, which in turn sparked the Kirkwall ladies to withhold donations from the Starkhaveners, and so on until it devolved into utter chaos that only ended when a knitting needle was jammed into the shoulder of a Nevarran noblewoman of minor rank.

Dorian could have screamed: "Oh, damn the Ladies' Knitting Club!" Something was wrong, something to do with the Templars that had attacked him, but when he tried to bring up the subject, Evelyn deftly steered the conversation into other more innocuous channels. This irritated Dorian almost beyond endurance.

The events of last night had shaken him more than he cared to admit, even to himself. Every time he thought of that drunken, angry face peering at him from the shadows of the tavern, he trembled. When he thought of that arm wrapped around his throat and what would have happened if Francesco had not appeared, he bent his head lower and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The longer he sat in the peaceful room, listening to Evelyn's voice, the tighter his nerves stretched. He felt that at any moment he would actually hear them break with the same pinging sound a fiddle string makes when it snaps.

Vivienne made all the appropriate responses to Evelyn's mindless conversation, but it was absent, thoughtless. Dorian stole glances at his companions and intercepted a look from her. It discomforted him because it was a long, measuring glance that carried in its cold depths something stronger than hate, something more insulting than contempt.

 _As though she thought I was to blame for what happened_ , Dorian thought indignantly.

Silence fell dully in the room and Evelyn did not take up the conversation again. In the silence, Dorian heard the rising wind outside. There was a severely repressed uneasiness about Evelyn and Vivienne that made them raise their heads at each sound of hooves in the courtyard, at each groan of bare branches under the wailing wind, at each scuffing sound of dry leaves tumbling across the gardens. They knew something, were waiting for something, despite their efforts to make things appear as usual. "If it won't pain you too much, Vivienne," Dorian finally broke. "I'd be much obliged if you'd tell me why you've been staring at me all morning. Has my face turned from purple to green or something?"

"It won't pain me to tell you. I'll do it with pleasure," said Vivienne and her eyes glittered. "I hate to see you ensnare so many fine men like that scout of yours when, if you knew--"

"Vivienne!" Said Evelyn warningly, her hands clenching her knitting.

"And what do you know of Francesco?" Dorian spat, the prospect of a quarrel making his spirits rise and his nervousness depart. Evelyn's eyes caught Vivienne's and reluctantly the First Enchanter closed her lips. But almost instantly she spoke again and her voice was cold with anger.

"You talk about how love is completely unattainable in Tevinter, but really you don't care about love. If you did you'd recognize what was right in front of you, instead of taking strangers to your bed night after night. You complain about the way people talk about you, and yet you do nothing to try to change their opinion. You revel in it instead! And when Evelyn warned you not to go out, you did it anyway. What happened to you yesterday was just what you deserved."

"Oh, Vivienne, stop!" Pleaded Evelyn.

"Let her talk," cried Dorian. "I'm enjoying it. I always knew she hated me and she was too much of a hypocrite to admit it. All her life she's had to live by other people's rules and now she can't stand to see another mage do exactly as he pleases."

Vivienne leapt up, her tall, lean body quivering with insult.

"I do hate you," she said in a clear, icy voice. "But it hasn't been hypocrisy that's kept me quiet. It's something you can't understand, brought up as you were in Tevinter. It's the realization that if all of us don't hang together and submerge our own small hates, we can't expect to beat the Venatori. But you-- you've done all you could to lower the prestige of decent mages. The Templars don't know that you aren't one of us and never will be. Templars haven't the sense enough to know the differences between your kind and proper Circle mages. And when you've bandied about Skyhold, exposing yourself to attack, you've exposed every well-behaved mage here as well. And now you've put the Commander and your scout in danger because they've got to--"

"Maker, Vivienne! You must be quiet! He doesn't know and he-- you must be quiet! You promised--"

"What don't I know?" Dorian was on his feet, furious, facing the coldly blazing Vivienne and the imploring Evelyn.

The Inquisitor shot Vivienne a dark look, and turned to him, her white, shaken face and tortured eyes showed the strain under which she was laboring. "Dorian, perhaps we should have told you but-- but you had been through so much last night and there was no sense in telling you until we knew for sure-- The six Templars that attacked you managed to escape. Francesco pursued them and Cullen followed, neither waiting for reinforcements. That was the last time anyone saw them. Once morning broke I sent the Chargers to look for them, but we've heard no word as of yet. I don't know if there was a fight or-- or if they took a misstep in the dark and fell off the side of the mountain." She broke off with a sob.

Dorian was stunned. "I don't understand why Francesco would just go after them like that," he blurted out. It was unbelievably foolish. Surely Francesco was smarter than that. Vivienne quirked a brow at him at his words, her lips twisted in a wry, unamused smile.

They fell into silence. Dorian was unsure of how much time passed. It could have been an hour or five minutes. But suddenly a voice rang through the fortress, a voice that sounded like Cullen's. Evelyn rushed out the door and saw the Commander, white faced and head lolling, leaning against the Iron Bull, an arrow shot clean through his calf. He was slurring into the Qunari's shoulder. "And I-I shaid that I'm the Commander and I'm not gonna let anyone dishrespect the army I've built," the man said emphatically.

"You tell 'em." The Bull clapped him on the back that nearly sent Cullen sprawling.

"And then he called me a mage lover and shot me with an arrow."

"Oh, Cullen!" Evelyn cried as she pushed through the crowd that had gathered in the hallway. She fell to her knees and gingerly poked at the arrow in his leg, assessing the damage. "It's a clean wound," she said, with a sigh of relief. "He should recover just fine. Cullen... Cullen, are you drunk?"

"I'm not sho very drunk, Evie," he replied, which was all the confirmation that Evelyn needed.

"I gave him some ale to help with the pain," the Iron Bull answered.

Evelyn turned on him with a huff. "What were you thinking? Alcohol thins the blood! He could have bled out before you even reached Skyhold."

"Ever try to walk over a mountain with an arrow in your leg? It hurts."

"Take him to my quarters and put him to bed. Vivienne, grab the kerosene lamp. I need light if I'm going to work." Had Dorian not been out of his mind with worry, it would have amused him to see Vivienne jump to like a proper soldier. Dorian tried to follow Evelyn and Vivienne into the bedroom where Cullen lay, but the Iron Bull's big body barred the doorway. Past his shoulder, he could see Evelyn rapidly cutting off the Commander's blood-soaked trousers with her embroidery scissors. Vivienne held the lamp low over the bed to give light. How could one man bleed so much and still live?

Cullen was back, but where was Francesco? A new fear and suspicion rose up in Dorian's chest like a cold, ever-swelling bubble. When that bubble broke--

"Where's Francesco?" He asked.

The Bull grabbed him by the elbow and started to pull him back towards his own room. There was a gentleness foreign to him that Dorian had only seen once before when he had carried Felix into the wagon that night they fled Redcliffe. "Let's go. You can't do anything here. You've had a rotten day, haven't you?"

Dorian allowed himself to be led and though he stood on the hearth rug in front of the fire he began to shiver. He looked up into the Bull's immobile face and for a moment he could not speak. Then: "Is Francesco here too?"

"No, the Chargers are carrying him up the mountain now. He's dead. His skull crushed in with a rock."


	14. Chapter 14

Dorian sat in his bedroom, picking at the supper tray one of the servants had brought him, listening to the wind hurling itself through the mountains. Skyhold seemed frighteningly still. Even now, weeks after Francesco had been laid to rest on the pyre, there were tiptoeing feet and hushed voices all in deference to his sorrow. They all seemed to think Francesco was the great love of his life, when in truth he barely knew him. They only had but a handful of encounters. Dorian still didn't understand why he had gone off like he had; surely he could not have cared so much about him that he would risk his life tracking his attackers over rough mountain passes in the dark.

No one intruded upon him, believing that he wished to be left alone with his grief, but to be left alone was the last thing Dorian desired. Had it only been grief, he could have borne it as he had borne other griefs. But, added to his stunned sense of loss at Francesco's death, was the accompaniment of guilt and remorse. He had killed Francesco. He had killed him just as surely as if he had been the one to push Francesco off that mountain. Evelyn had begged him not to go out alone but he had not listened to her. And now Francesco was dead because of his obstinacy. The Maker would punish him for that.

All he could think about was the way Francesco's face had looked as he laid on the pyre, how he had coldly taken him to bed and used him, how he had run after other men when he was away in Crestwood. They had never talked of being exclusive, but now -- when it was far too late -- it had become obvious to Dorian that Francesco had wanted something more. He shivered, wishing he was still alive so he could be nice to him, so very nice to make up for it all.

If only Evelyn was with him. He didn't care if she nattered to him all day long about knitting, Evelyn could calm his worries. But Evelyn was still nursing Cullen. And he had almost killed Cullen too, just as he had killed Francesco.

His loneliness pressed in on him until he felt he could not bear it unaided any longer. He rose from his bed and dug about in the bottom bureau drawer, producing a bottle of brandy that he had taken from the cellar yesterday. It was nearly half-empty. Surely he hadn't drunk that much since last night! He poured a generous amount into his water glass and gulped it down. He would have to put the bottle back in the morning, filled to the top with water. Josephine had already chastised him once for liberating a bottle or two from Skyhold's personal store.

The brandy burned with fiery pleasantness. There was nothing like it when you needed it. In fact, brandy was good almost any time, so much better than insipid wine. His father used to regulate his drinking to two glasses of wine a day, never trusting either his son or his wife to stop on their own. Why shouldn't he drink if he wanted to? He was a grown man. Vivienne had sniffed his breath most obviously earlier that morning and he had seen the triumphant look on her face. The old cat! He didn't care. He refused to care.

He poured another drink. It wouldn't matter if he did get a little tipsy tonight for he was going to bed soon and he could always gargle cologne if anyone came calling. He wished he could get as completely and thoughtlessly drunk as Mother used to get, but he'd have to steal a couple more bottles for that. Then perhaps he could forget Francesco's sunken face accusing him of murder.

He wondered if everyone in Skyhold thought he had killed him. Certainly the people at the funeral had been cold to him. He took another drink at the thought, shuddering as the hot brandy went down his throat. He felt very warm now but still he couldn't get the thought of Francesco out of his mind.

The knock on his door hammered with a dull sound that made the still room echo. He wondered incuriously who it was and, when a man's voice, resonant and drawling, rose above to answer his inquiry from behind the closed door, gladness and relief flooded him. It was the Iron Bull. He had not seen him since he broke the news of Francesco's death to him, and now he knew that he was the one person who could help him tonight.

"I will be there shortly, Bull," he called, leaping from the bed. He observed with some astonishment that his knees were a little unsteady and he leaned against the bureau. He peered at his reflection, smoothing down his hair. He didn't look very pretty. His wounds were healing, the purple and blue giving way to mottled green and yellow, and the cuts were pink with new skin, but he still looked a fright. He picked up the cologne bottle and took a large mouthful, carefully rinsed his mouth and then spit into the wash basin.

He opened the door and the Bull had to duck down just to fit through his doorway. He was impressive to look at when sprawled across a chair in the tavern, like some lazy, indolent cat, but here in Dorian's small bedroom the Qunari towered over everything. "It's no good, Dorian," he said.

"What?"

"The cologne."

Dorian sniffed. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I'm sure you do. You've been drinking pretty heavily."

"Well, what if I have? Is it any of your business?"

"Don't drink alone, Dorian. People always find out and it ruins the reputation. And besides, it's bad business, drinking alone. Come down to the tavern and drink, if you must. You must be tired of this tomb you've shut yourself in by now."

"I don't want to." It sounded an awful lot like a pout -- though Dorian would deny it -- and he collapsed into his chair with such drama that the Iron Bull couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips.

"What's the matter, Dorian?"

Dorian raised his eyes to his face and somehow found comfort in the blank inscrutability he saw there. He did not know why this should be, for he was such an unpredictable person. Suddenly the words bubbled up faster than he could speak them. He could tell him. He could tell the Iron Bull anything. He was a mercenary and a spy, he wouldn't sit in judgment of him. He reached out to take hold of the Bull's hand, gripping it as he confessed, "I'm afraid of going to the Void."

If the Iron Bull laughed at him he would die, right then. But he didn't laugh.

"Maybe we don't go anywhere after we die. Maybe there isn't a Maker."

"Oh, I know there is. I was raised on it."

"Far be it from me to question the teachings of childhood. Tell me, why are you going to the Void?"

He was teasing now, Dorian could see the glint in his eye but he did not mind. His hands felt so warm and strong, so comforting to cling to. He could not stop the words from pouring out even if he wanted to. "Evelyn told me what would happen if I left the Hall and I did it anyway and now Francesco's dead. And I nearly killed Cullen. And... and I should have stopped Felix from leaving Tevinter with his father. I knew it was going to be a disaster, I should have done something, and now he's dead too. Everything I touch I ruin."

Understanding dawned in the Bull's face. "So that's what happened to your friend. I had wondered, when you showed up in Haven without him. But you never talked about it, so I didn't ask." He smiled, but it was sad and pitying. "Will all the water in the ocean wash the blood clean from your hands?" He mocked.

"What?"

"Seems to me like you're blaming yourself for other people's choices. They were grown men who could make up their own minds. The Templars made the choice to attack you unprovoked, Francesco made the choice to run after them, Cullen made the choice to try and stop him, and your friend made the choice to leave Tevinter. You can't control other people. That's not how it works."

"My father could," Dorian insisted. "My father could make people obey with just a word. Everyone except me. I'm glad he can't see me now. He didn't raise me to be this way. He could be commanding and forceful without ever needing to raise his voice. I so wanted to be just like him in every way. And I ruined him too, just like Felix and Francesco."

Tears were streaming unheeded down his face and he clutched the Bull's hand so hard that his nails dug into his flesh.

"Hush," the Bull said, his voice calm and soothing. "You've been listening to gossip. I thought you knew better than that. Going to the tavern that night wasn't the smartest thing you've ever done, but you're not to blame for the actions of those Templars. You should be able to get a drink without being attacked just for existing. And as I recollect, you did everything you could to save Felix."

Dorian didn't think that was quite right, but he didn't want to argue. The brandy was spinning in his head now and Dorian felt giddy and a little reckless. He wanted comfort and the Iron Bull wanted him. Whatever the Qunari was about to say was cut off when Dorian leaned up to kiss him. He expected the Bull to kiss like he fought, but he just stood there, allowed Dorian to press their lips together, as immobile as a statue. Dorian pulled away with an angry huff. "So much for all your talk of conquering," he spat, rising up from his chair. A large grey hand clamped around his shoulder, preventing him from storming off.

"I don't think this is what you need."

"Who cares about what I need? This is what I want. You said it yourself: people make their own choices. I'm making mine. And I'm not going to make the same mistake I did with Francesco. You're a Qunari. You don't believe in relationships or romance or any of that. You don't love me anymore than I love you."

A sharp, hard look overcame the Bull and for a moment Dorian was convinced he was going to turn him down, but then his arms were around him, sure and unyielding. He kissed him, softly at first, and then with a swift gradation of intensity that made Dorian cling to him as the only solid thing in a dizzy, swaying world.

Dorian was suddenly hoisted into the air as one the Bull's big hands gripped his arse and lifted him up. He was forced to wrap his legs around the man's waist lest he fall. "Alright, Vint," the Bull growled against his lips. "I'll give you what you want."

He was dropped on the bed, the Iron Bull crawling over him, blanketing him with his entire body. Dorian kissed his neck and chest and he heard the Qunari whisper into his hair, "You want me to stop, just say _katoh_." Dorian already knew he would never say it. No matter what happened. He'd welcomed anything the Bull dished out. The more painful, the better.

Large grey hands tore at his clothes, shredding them until his brown skin peeked through, prickling at the cold, and the Bull hungrily bit and nipped at the tantalizing flesh. Dorian didn't care, he didn't care, he wanted more. He dug his nails into his shoulders and urged him on, taunting him, mocking him. Is that the best you've got? Show me. Show me how a real savage fucks. Images of the Fade flittered through his mind, of the Bull quaking at the thought of becoming Tal-Vashoth. Guilt twisted his insides, but the Iron Bull was just one more thing for him to ruin. He ruined everything, everyone, why not the Iron Bull too? The Qunari snarled against his neck, sank his teeth into the column of skin, and Dorian suddenly found himself face down, his still tender face mashed against the pillow and his arms pulled back behind him. The rest of his clothes were ripped away and he felt the Qunari's fingers brush over his entrance, rubbing, teasing. Dorian groaned and pushed back, burying his face deeper in the pillow.

They left for a moment and came back slick, either from the various creams and oils that he kept with the rest of his beauty supplies or from something the Bull had brought with him. It didn't matter, none of it mattered, the thoughts flew from his mind as a finger was pushed into him, thick and painful and wonderful. Dorian gasped and pushed back as best he could, but it was slow, too slow. "Harder, you fucking animal," he snapped, managing to kick back his leg to strike at his thigh like a rider urging on its horse. He needed it harder, he didn't want to think. He'll think about it tomorrow.

The foot bounced off the hard muscle of the Bull's thigh, ineffectual, barely more than a tap. But still he paused. He hovered somewhere above Dorian, who grunted in frustration. What could possibly be going on in his head? Then, suddenly, "I'm calling it," the Iron Bull announced, pulling out his finger and leaving Dorian cold and bereft. "Katoh."

The heavy weight was gone and Dorian sat up to watch the Iron Bull tug his pants back on, studiously avoiding his gaze. "That's it?" He demanded.

"You want to play the Qunari barbarian and the delicate Tevinter flower? Yeah, I can do that. I can even dish out some punishment. Maybe a spanking or two. But I won't be the sword for you to fall on. You are not my enemy."

"What? Are you saying you actually care?" And Dorian couldn't keep the bitter, mocking edge from creeping into his voice. "You _aren't_ in love with me, are you?"

"No, I'm not in love with you, no more than you are with me, and if I were you would be the last person I'd ever tell. May the Maker or Andraste or whoever it is you Vints believe in help the man who ever really loves you. You'd break his heart. Cool, destructive little cat who is so careless and confident he doesn't even trouble to sheathe his claws."

Dorian's heart thudded as thoughts of Francesco returned to his mind. But then the Iron Bull abruptly started off across the room and he followed him, bewildered, to the door. "What is the matter? Where are you going?"

"Back to the tavern to drink. To the sparring ring for a fight. Anywhere."

Just like that. "Oh, you are impossible!" Dorian cried in wrath, not caring who heard. "And I don't care if you never come back."

He turned and stalked towards the bed, cautiously casting a glance back at the Bull through the corner of his eye. The Qunari had an amused, half-smile on his face, but Dorian didn't think he was laughing at him. He was laughing at himself. "But I will come back," he said -- more to himself than Dorian -- and out he went, leaving Dorian to sit on the bed looking at the closed door.

Later, as he sobered and the words that he had said to Bull rushed through his brain, he winced at the guilt and heartbreak that tugged at him. He had been too caught up in his own pain to notice the hurt he had caused him. That night Dorian crept through the tavern, ignoring the eyes that were fixed on him, and climbed the stairs up to the Bull's room. He pushed at the door and it was unlocked, just as the Bull had promised. The man glanced up from where he was untying his laces, not looking the least bit surprised that Dorian was standing there in his doorway.

"I know I'm quite the sight," the Qunari said with a smile. "But are you just going to stand there and stare all day?"

Dorian chuckled a little and closed the door, locking it behind him. He padded over and crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs. One of the Bull's big hands came up to grip his waist, just above the swell of his arse. The mage pressed his lips gently against the Iron Bull's, feather soft and free of the stench of brandy. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he murmured against his mouth. "I'm not destructive. I can be kind."

The Bull laughed. "Somehow, that's even worse."

Dorian bit his lip in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. The Bull twisted them until Dorian was lying underneath him once more, but this time he was on his back and staring up at the Qunari's face. His eye flickered over him, hunting for something in Dorian's gaze which he did not find, but Dorian didn't care because then he was kissing him like he was never going to stop.


	15. Chapter 15

Dorian had more fun with the Iron Bull than he ever had since before he left Tevinter. No matter where Evelyn dragged them to, the Bull always managed to find some small, country inn and Dorian enjoyed it with the headlong pleasure of a pardoned life prisoner. Their time together was entertaining, diverting, and the more time he spent with Bull, the more he got to know the Chargers. They were an unruly bunch of miscreants who laughed at everything and never talked of stupid, serious things or hard times. They teased Dorian and paid him the most extravagant compliments as though they were oblivious to Bull's hand resting in the small of his back.

They all had the same hard, reckless look the Bull wore. Their eyes were always alert, like soldiers who had lived too long with danger to ever be careless. They seemed to have no pasts or futures, and they politely discouraged Dorian when, to make conversation, he asked what or where they were before they joined the Iron Bull as mercenaries. That, in itself, was strange to Dorian for in Tevinter every respectable newcomer hastened to present his credentials, to tell proudly of his home and family, to trace the torturous mazes of relationship that stretched over the entire country. But they were all great fun and didn't care one whit that he was Vint, so it mattered little to Dorian that they chose to live utterly in the present. He liked them very well. Bull was amused when he told him so.

"I thought you would," he said and laughed.

"Why not?" His suspicions aroused as always by his laughter.

"They're all black sheep, rascals," he answered fondly, as though he had just paid his Chargers the greatest compliment. "For a Vint magister, you have no instinct for people, no discrimination between the cheap and the gilded."

Dorian rolled his eyes, but didn't bother to correct him about being a magister. He knew the Bull did it simply to rile him up. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, making his voice sound as haughty and condescending as possible as he took a sip of his drink. "I have excellent taste."

"Oh? And what's that you're drinking there? Does Fereldan beer fall under the category of 'excellent taste'?"

Dining with the Bull was an adventure too, for like Dorian he missed the hot spices of the North. He knew where to get Tevinter and Qunari seasonings and how to cook with it. The wines and liqueurs and ales he brought from his adventures made the beer and stolen brandy Dorian was reduced to pale in comparison. And the food the Bull ordered! His wanderings across Thedas had refined his wide appetites and he knew all the best places with the best dishes. When in Orlais, he asked for _broet blanc sur chappons_ and _tortres parmeysines_ and _flaons de lait d'amendres_. When in Ferelden, he ordered mutton glazed with the juice of bitter oranges and a dish made from little larks. Remembering the hungry days when they had first arrived at Skyhold, Dorian felt that he could never eat enough of these rich foods.

"You eat as though each meal were you last," joked the Bull. "Don't scrape the plate, Dorian. I'm sure there's more in the kitchen. You only need to ask the innkeeper."

But Dorian only stuck his tongue out at him and ordered another pastry, thick with chocolate and stuffed with meringue.

What fun it was to be able to spend your days as you liked and not have to bother with dirty looks and harsh whispers. If the soldiers at Skyhold still thought him nothing more than a Tevinter blood mage, they certainly kept their peace now that he was in the company of the Iron Bull more often than not. He couldn't remember the last time he didn't feel the pressure of people's stares. Not even as a child had he felt this free. What fun to wear robes that showed off your arms and legs and know that men were admiring you! What fun to flirt and kiss whomever you wanted and know that no one would dare try to censor you! Dorian was embarrassed to say that his newfound freedom went straight to his head, making him giddy and dizzy with excitement. After the first time he had gone out with the Bull and his Chargers, he awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and an awful memory of singing that damnable song Krem had insisted on teaching him all the way to the Bull's room. He hardly knew how to face the man, so great was his humiliation, and of course Bull had teased him about it for nearly a week. Everything he did seemed to amuse the Qunari, as though he was a gamboling kitten.

It was exciting to go out with Bull. He knew so many things, both in the bedroom and out, and he was so handsome. Somehow Dorian had never given his looks a thought before, beyond the fact that he was Qunari. But now, leaning into his side in some small town tavern, he could see how the eyes of other patrons followed Bull and how they fluttered when he spoke to them. The realization that people envied Dorian made him suddenly proud to be seen by his side.

 _Why, we're a handsome couple,_ thought Dorian with pleasure.

Not only was it fun, but it was also educational. That was odd in itself, because Dorian had never imagined a Qunari could teach him anything that Tevinter could not. Now he felt like a child, every day on the brink of a new discovery. They tried things that Dorian had never dared before and always, always, Bull provided him an out if Dorian ever needed it. "You want to stop, you just say _katoh_ and I'll stop. No questions. You will always be safe with me," Bull whispered against Dorian's lips as he tied his hands together with an unnerving gentleness. Most of his experiences with men didn't go beyond the night; even Francesco, who had often tried to coax Dorian into joining him somewhere other than the bedroom, had not filled his time the way the Bull did. With Bull, Dorian always found himself off-balance in the most thrilling of ways. He did not love him but he was undoubtedly the most exciting person he had ever been with.

He learned a great deal about the Iron Bull himself. He learned that his voice could rumble with pleasure like a languid cat and turn crisp and crackling the next. He could be an ardent, almost tender, lover for a brief while, and immediately after a mocking devil who ripped the lid from Dorian's blackpowder temper, fired it and enjoyed the explosion.

Some mornings Bull tied him to the bedpost to keep him still as he teased him and, just when Dorian was convinced the Qunari was finally going to take him, he left and returned a few minutes later with a breakfast tray in his hands and fed him as though Dorian could not do it himself if but the Bull would just let him loose. Yet other mornings he was torn rudely out of deep slumber when Bull snatched all the bed covers from him and tickled his bare feet. He took him to ribald plays and annoyed him by whispering that the Maker probably didn't approve of such amusements, and followed him into the chantry too and whispered funny obscenities, only to reprove Dorian for laughing with mock seriousness. He made him play and Dorian had almost forgotten how. Life had been so serious and so bitter.

There were still some things he did not understand about the Bull, however. Things about him which occasionally puzzled Dorian. There was the way he looked at him sometimes, when Bull thought he was unaware. Turning quickly Dorian frequently caught him watching him, an alert, eager, waiting look in his eye.

"Why do you look at me like that?" He once asked irritably. "Like a cat at a mousehole."

But the Iron Bull's face had changed swiftly and he only laughed. Dorian, who had never been very good at controlling his temper, spat bitter, sarcastic words at him. How dare he laugh and pretend otherwise when Dorian knew good and well that Bull had been staring at him. But the Qunari picked him up swiftly, cutting off the biting words with a hard kiss, and said, "That's enough out of you. Keep it up and I'll gag you. I'm riding you with a slack reign, Vint, but don't forget that I'm riding you with curb and spurs just the same." He pushed him into the bed and Dorian soon forgot his anger underneath the Bull's capable hands.

Yes, life was very pleasant-- except when he thought of Felix. Even now Felix had a way of worming into his thoughts that not even Cullen could block out. The Iron Bull kept him too busy to think of Felix often during the day, but when he was tired from sex or his head was spinning from too much brandy-- then he thought of Felix. Frequently when he lay drowsily in Bull's arms with the moonlight streaming over the bed, he thought how perfect life would be if it was only Felix's arms which held him so closely, if it was only Felix who drew his fingers along the back of Dorian's neck.

"Who are you thinking about?" The Bull asked, never pausing in his petting.

Dorian grew still as his insides twisted. It wasn't as though he and the Bull were sweethearts, but it still felt wrong imagining another man while he laid next to him, even if Felix was dead and gone and never coming back. "I'm thinking of you and your depravity. I hope I have a set of robes with a collar high enough to cover the marks you left."

Bull rumbled out a laugh and Dorian could feel his chest shake with it. "Thanks, it's a sweet lie, but I know it isn't me. You don't look at me like that."

"Hush," Dorian commanded, tugging on his horn. "And go to sleep." He settled down next to the man, pressing his face against the thick, grey flank as he willed himself to sleep.

Perhaps it was still the guilt that stirred inside of him, or the quantity of brandy he drank, or some combination of the two, but he awoke several hours later, cold with sweat and breathing heavily. He was back in Minrathous, the balmy heat filling his mouth and choking him with it. He crawled along the floor of his father's study, searching among the bodies that littered the room. There was too much blood and he wiped at their faces to see if he knew any of the victims, but it was no use. The blood wouldn't come off. It stained the rugs and his hands and Dorian screamed.

Bull was leaning over him when he woke, and without a word he picked him up in his arms like a child and held him close, his hard muscles comforting, his wordless murmuring soothing, until Dorian stopped shaking. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered.

"Don't be. I know what its like having nightmares."

"There were so many corpses and I didn't know who I was looking for. I tried to look at their faces but the blood kept getting in the way," Dorian blurted out, without quite meaning to.

The Iron Bull didn't ask any questions, though, didn't probe except to ask, "You've had this dream before?"

"Similar, but not the same. There is usually only one person lying dead on the floor and I know who it is. Do you ever think it will stop?"

"Perhaps," he answered, smoothing his tumbled hair. "I think that if you get used to being safe and warm in your everyday life, it will occur less frequently. And, Dorian, I'm going to see that you are safe." Dorian leaned back into his strong hand as Bull shifted him to one knee. He sat there with his bare feet dangling, watching the play of muscles on his grey chest, his terrors forgotten.

* * *

Redcliffe had made remarkable strides since Dorian was last there. The muddy streets that he walked along a hundred times for weeks, that he had fled down with ducked head and fear-quickened legs when Felix was sick, this street he had last seen in the heat and hurry and anguish of the mage retreat, was so strange looking it was startling. Though many new buildings had sprung up since the Venatori had swept through the Hinterlands, there were still wide vacant lots surrounding the village where heaps of smudged broken planks lay amid a jumble of rubbish, dead weeds and broom-sedge. There were the remains of a few buildings he remembered, roofless wood shacks through which the dull daylight shone, glassless windows gaping, chimneys towering lonesomely. But he was cheered by the sight of new buildings going up along the street.

There were dozens of them and several were three stories high! Everywhere building was going on, for as he looked down the street, trying to adjust his mind to the new Redcliffe, he heard the blithe sound of hammers and saws, noticed scaffoldings rising and saw men climbing ladders with wood planks on their shoulders.

"Not that I don't mind a bit of sightseeing," Dorian commented as he rode beside Evelyn. "But what exactly are we doing here?"

She smiled, nervousness and excitement at war with her face. "You'll see. Come on."

Evelyn led him to the Gull and Lantern and Dorian couldn't help the thudding of his heart as he looked up at the building. He had been such a child when he had stayed there. Memories of that long afternoon he had spent nursing the rebel mages came flooding back into his mind. He had never seen so many dead bodies before, and now he was a seasoned soldier, the veteran of many battles. And yet that summer day still had a way of quickening his breath.

The two hitched their horses and stepped inside. He felt sweat prick at the back of his neck as he took in the empty tavern. "The place is deserted? Is this normal, or--?"

"Dorian."

A cold, icy hand gripped him as he turned slowly to see a familiar face step out of the shadows, the same one he saw when he looked into a mirror. "Father?"

He turned to Evelyn, his voice quiet at first with horror before rising with the heat of his anger. "You knew about all this? Is that why you brought me here?!"

That mousy look Dorian so hated overcame her face as she realized her misstep. "I'm only trying to help."

"Help? Is that what you call this?"

"She didn't know I would be here, Dorian," his father broke in. _Always the voice of reason_ , Dorian thought bitterly. "I apologize for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for you to be involved."

"Of course not. Magister Pavus couldn't come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor," Dorian mocked. "What would people think? What is 'this' exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?"

Halward sighed, turning to the Inquisitor. "This is how it has always been."

"I should leave you to work this out..." Evelyn murmured, her face beet red.

Fear shot through him at the thought of being alone with his father. "No," he commanded. "You wanted to involve yourself. You should hear the truth."

"Dorian, there's no need to--"

"I prefer the company of men," Dorian pushed on. "My father disapproves."

Her embarrassed countenance just grew more befuddled, as though she could not understand why that would matter. "Your father might be here to reach out," she said. "You could give him a chance." Hope springs eternal.

"Let's just go."

His father stepped forward, hand lifting in want to touch him before he brought it sharply back to his side. "Dorian, please, if you only listen to me--"

"Why?" Dorian demanded. "So you can spout more convenient lies? He taught me to hate blood magic!" Dorian's eyes never left his father, but Evelyn knew he was addressing her. "The resort of the weak mind. Those are _his_ words. But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life? You tried to _change_ me!" Dorian swallowed back the tears, horrified at the crack in his voice, a weakness for all to see.

"I only wanted what was best for you!"

Dorian pushed the pain down, deep down so that it couldn't hurt him and clung to the anger that was swiftly rising. "You wanted what was the best for _you_! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!"

Once the words 'blood magic' poured from his mouth a sharp change overtook Evelyn. The timid, little creature was gone, and in its place was the same hard, cold look that Dorian had grown to hate more than her usual mousy, simpering expression. "I think it's time we left," she said quietly.

"I agree."

The ride back to Skyhold was quiet. He was aware of the anxious looks Evelyn threw at him, but he ignored it. He didn't want to speak to her. He didn't want anything except to crawl into bed with a bottle of brandy and forget the world existed for the next couple of hours.

He avoided the library for the next few days. He knew that Evelyn was lurking about, trying to catch him alone. Hopefully she would take the hint. He couldn't handle her apologies right now, or her sorry looks... maybe, if she had only told him, if he had been the one to make the decision... He cut off that train of thought. The dream started to occur more frequently after that and the bodies piled higher and higher. Dorian dreaded falling asleep. The only relief he found was in Bull's arms, his large frame shielding him from everything that could hurt him.

Before he knew it, it had been almost a year since he had left Tevinter. The constant fighting took up so much of his time, and Bull stole what was left of his leisure hours for himself, that it hardly seemed that it had been so long. He had been such a different person then. He wouldn't have recognized himself if he had come across the Dorian he was today while holidaying in the Valarian Fields. He would probably have been horrified by what he would one day become. After all, whatever he was now, he wasn't a Pavus.

With startingly clarity he remembered the deal he had made with Ponchard was swiftly drawing to a close. Before he could even think about it, he was stealing himself away from Bull's bed, dressing quickly, and hurrying back to his own room. He sighed with relief when he found the ticket buried beneath some papers in his desk drawer. He had almost finished drafting his letter to Ponchard, the money he owed him counted out to be delivered to him, by the time Dorian stopped and actually thought about what he was doing. What was the point of buying back his birthright now? He had made his choice. For a long moment, he did nothing but sit there and stare at the words on the parchment. Then he picked it up, held it above the candle and watched it burn.

Better he spent his money on a new pair of boots. A bridle for his horse. Something practical. Boring. Or he could buy the most expensive Tevinter liquor Belle had in her shop and get smashingly drunk with Bull. Yes, that sounded like a much better use of his money.


	16. Chapter 16

Dorian luxuriated in the Bull's bed, idly reading a book as the wild sounds of a ruckus floated from downstairs. He had snuck inside Bull's room by way of the battlements, a satchel filled with objects of a most interesting -- and phallic -- nature under his arm. He had hoped to give him the surprise of his life, but as the hours passed and still the Iron Bull remained firmly entrenched in the pleasures offered up by the tavern, Dorian had grown quickly bored. There were other men he could avail himself upon, and had done so in the past to his enjoyment, but at the moment that option appealed very little to him. With the exception of Cullen, few men could capture his attention the way the Iron Bull could-- and he would be shocked if Cullen managed to equal him in depravity, as well. But Dorian supposed that piece of information about their dear Commander would always remain a mystery, so long as he was devoted to Evelyn.

The door swung open and Dorian tried to look as nonchalant as possible as he subtly twisted his naked form to better show it off, careful to keep his eyes firmly on his book. He had no intention of indulging the Bull _now_ , but he was petty enough to taunt him with that which he could have had.

"This is certainly a surprise," Bull said, with a leer. He had been drinking -- quite heavily too -- but it never showed in his words or manner. Bull had often taken care of Dorian when he was in his cups, but never once had he been in similar straits to Dorian's knowledge. He didn't know if it was due to his iron-clad control or whether it was simply because he was just so damn big that allowed him to drink any man under the table. Months ago, Dorian would have claimed that the reckless, bloodthirsty Iron Bull hadn't an ounce of discipline, but he was quickly learning that everything Bull did was controlled, right down to that very same recklessness and bloodlust.

"It had been a surprise," Dorian replied, idly flipping the page, though in truth he had not read a word of it. And damn if the Bull didn't smile, as if he knew. "But while you were babysitting that unruly mob of brats you claim to command, I took matters into my own hand, so to speak."

"Hey, it's not their fault if they're brats," Bull protested with a pout. "The Chargers just need a mother's love."

Dorian snorted, despite himself. "Good luck with that. Only a mother _could_ love them."

Bull stalked towards him, his gait as loose and silent as a predator's, eyeing him up and down and running a lazy hand up his calf. "So, took care of things yourself, did you?"

"Well, when you want something done right..."

He leaned over him and Dorian parted his thighs so that he could settle comfortably between them. "Yeah? Tell me what you did. Was your grip hard around your cock? Did the strokes chafe and squeeze, or were you gentle? Did you tease yourself with light touches? Or did you press into yourself instead, wishing your fingers were just a little bit bigger, a little bit longer..." He blanketed Dorian with his bulk, nipping at his jaw. Dorian's breath hitched, completely without his permission. Where had that icy aloofness gone? He hated giving the Qunari even an inch; if Bull wanted him, he was going to have to work for it. Jump through every hoop Dorian held up to him. And yet, no matter what, Bull always emerged the victor in these little games and damn him if Dorian couldn't feel him grin against his skin.

The door was pushed open a second time, and Krem was there swaying drunkenly in the threshold. "'Ey, Chief--" he started, then squinted at the scene before him and, realizing what he was witnessing, swiftly turned on his heel. "Er, nevermind. Tell ya 'bout it in the mornin'."

As soon as the door closed behind him, Dorian looked up to face the Bull. "Brats, the lot of them," he insisted, but his voice was fond.

Bull laughed and kissed him, murmuring Qunlat against his lips. Things like _na'thek_ and _kadan_ and Dorian wondered at what they could mean.

* * *

He barely saw Bull over the next few days. The Qunari had offered an alliance and the Iron Bull bounded from the tavern to the sparring ring to the war room with a nervous, restless energy that could not be contained. He was excited and hopeful and worried and resigned; Dorian could see all of these emotions playing out across his face and he wondered at how well he could now read Bull. The only time the man slowed down was when he crawled into Dorian's bed late at night, trying to distract himself as much as him with hard, biting kisses, pulling him close and clinging when it was all over. "I'm just used to them being... over there," he reluctantly admitted the night before they were to meet their contact on the Storm Coast to stop a shipment of red lyrium from reaching the Imperium. It was pitch dark and his scarred face was pressed against Dorian's hair, his expression carefully hidden from the human.

There were few places Dorian hated more than the Storm Coast. It was a damnable, desolate land. He couldn't stop himself from shivering; the rain penetrated his robes, stuck to his skin, chilled him to the bone. The constant churning of the waves did not help matters either. He could not look out across the wild raging sea without thinking of those weeks he had spent in a ship's hold traveling from Tevinter to the Free Marches. His stomach rolled with the waves, and he knew his face was green.

"You going to hurl?" Stitches asked, taking in his pallid complexion.

Such manners. Dorian didn't think anyone had ever phrased the question quite like that to him before. He almost laughed, but then thought better of it as his stomach revolted. Krem shot him an amused grin as though he knew everything that was going through his mind. _Delicate Tevinter mage, not used to words like_ hurl _before. Only pretty euphemisms will do._

"All right, our Qunari contact should be here to meet us," the Iron Bull announced, coming to a stop in a glade. His eye darted around the foliage, suspicious and tense.

"He is."

An elf stepped into view and Bull immediately relaxed. "Good to see you, Hissrad," he said.

Bull grinned. "Gatt! Last I heard you were still in Seheron!"

"They finally decided I'd calmed down enough to go back out into the world."

"Boss, this is Gatt," Bull turned to Evelyn, who smiled wanly. "We worked together in Seheron."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor. Hissrad's reports say you're doing good work."

Evelyn's mouth puckered slightly. "Iron Bull's name is Hissrad?"

Gatt smiled at her ignorance. It was not an altogether pleasant expression. "Under the Qun, we use titles, not names."

"My title was 'Hissrad' because I was assigned to secret work," Bull broke in. "You can translate it as 'Keeper of Illusions', or--"

"Liar. It means 'liar'."

Bull scowled. "Well, you don't have to say it like _that_."

Liar. Looking at Bull, one would think he had never lied a day in his life. He seemed too open, too honest. But Dorian thought that honesty might be just as controlled as everything else about the Iron Bull's life.

"I look forward to working together." Anyone could tell just by looking at Evelyn's face that this was far from the truth. Evelyn possessed a quiet, but fierce devotion to her Maker. Many had confused her reluctance to take up the title of 'Herald' as a matter of lack of faith, while in truth it was the idea that any mortal would dare claim to know the Maker's will that had unsettled her. Just because she had been given the power to close the Breach, did not mean the Maker intended for her to become His new prophet. Only one woman had been worthy of that role, and it was not Evelyn. According to the Inquisitor, most of the world's problems occurred because of the Chantry claiming their every action was carried out by the divine guidance of the Maker, completely ignoring just how self-serving the Chantry truly was. However, not even her liberal views could erase decades of indoctrination. She would approach the Qunari with an open hand -- they were the Maker's children, they deserved respect even if they didn't believe in Him -- but it did not settle her unease.

"Hopefully this will help both our peoples. Tevinter is dangerous enough without the influence of this Venatori cult."

Dorian felt his hackles rise at the words. It didn't matter that Dorian had said as much before. It inflamed him to hear his homeland disparaged by this Qunari -- right at this moment, Tevinter belonged to him alone and he would not stand for anyone to insult its beauty -- and before he had gotten control of his mouth he heard himself sneer, "Yes. Filthy, decadent brutes the lot of them. I'm certain life would be much better for all of us under the Qun."

"It was for me, after the Qunari rescued me from slavery in Tevinter. I was eight. The Qun isn't perfect but it gave me a better life."

Nothing this Gatt could have said would have stopped the bitter, hot words from pouring out of his mouth. He had insulted Tevinter, and therefore had insulted Dorian. "Yes, one free from all that pointless free will and independent thought. Such an improvement." The fact that Gatt had been a slave before then, and had never known free will, was lost on Dorian.

With a sigh like a beleaguered mother separating two naughty children from fighting, Evelyn deftly cut off whatever else Dorian had been about to say. "The Imperium and the Qunari both have their problems."

Dorian did not pout. "Fair enough, I suppose." Crossing his arms and refusing to look at Gatt was not pouting.

"I'm not here to convert anyone. All I care about is stopping this red lyrium from reaching Minrathous."

Bull nodded. "With this stuff, the Vints could make their slaves into an army of magical freaks. We could lose Seheron... and see a giant Tevinter army come marching back down here."

It unsettled Dorian to hear Bull speak like this. This wasn't a playful insult that he threw at Dorian and Krem to tease them and rile them up. Here, the _Vints_ were the enemy who needed to be killed. For the Qun.

"The Ben-Hassrath agree. That's why we're here." Gatt gestured to the coastline. "Our dreadnought is safely out of view, and out of range of any Venatori mages on shore. We'll need to eliminate the Venatori, then signal the dreadnought so that it can come in and take out the smuggler ship."

Evelyn turned to the Iron Bull. "What do you think, Bull?"

He grunted. "Don't know. I've never liked covering a dreadnought run. Too many ways for crap to go wrong. If our scouts underestimate enemy numbers, we're dead. If we can't lock down the Venatori mages, the ship is dead. It's risky."

"Riskier than letting red lyrium into Minrathous?" Gatt pointed out.

Evelyn frowned. It was dangerous, reckless, but they didn't have many options. "Let's go hold up our end of this bargain, then."

"My agents suggested two possible locations the Venatori may be camped to guard the shore. There..." He pointed north. "And there." Gatt gestured to a ridge along the shore. "We need to split up and hit both at once."

"I'll come with you, Boss. Krem can lead the Chargers. Let me fill him in. Come by when you're ready to move."

Evelyn shared an uneasy glance with Dorian. It was a questioning look, one that seemed to ask if this was the right thing to do. But before Dorian could comment on it, she steeled herself and turned away, her head high and countenance hard. She was losing herself to the role she thought she had to play. It surprised him when he realized that he missed the old Evelyn, the boring, mousy little creature who had constantly irritated him. Dorian sighed and followed after her.

"Once they're down, send up your signal. That'll let the dreadnought know it's safe to come in," Bull advised his men, though Dorian thought he looked less like a commander and more like a schoolmarm.

"Understood, Chief."

"Remember, you're gonna want a volley to start, but don't get suckered into fighting at range. They've got mages."

"It's alright, we've got a mage of our own."

"I'm not a mage!" Dalish protested.

"Get in close and take their enchanter down before he takes over the battlefield."

Skinner smiled. It always sent shivers up Dorian's spine when she did that. "He'll be dead before he knows it."

"Just... pay attention, alright? The Vints want this lyrium shipment bad."

Finally, Krem seemed to have reached his limit. "Yes, I know. Thanks, Mother."

Bull's mouth twitched, like he didn't know whether to smile or frown. "Qunari don't have mothers, remember?"

"We'll be fine, Chief."

"Alright, Chargers... Horns up!"

"Horns up!"

The Chargers turned away and started their long march through the thick foliage while Bull looked back to face Dorian and the Inquisitor. "Ready whenever you are, Boss." Evelyn nodded and wandered off to meet Gatt who was still waiting at the rendezvous point, but Dorian remained rooted, smiling that teasing grin that sent a streak of wild heat racing though Bull. "What?" He asked.

"Only a mother's love," he said and followed after Evelyn, laughing all the while.

They caught up to Gatt and Evelyn quickly enough and Dorian noticed the way the elf's eyes darted over him and Bull. "You gave your Chargers the easier target," he commented off-handedly.

"You think?" Bull asked.

"Lower and farther from the smugglers' ship? It's much less likely to be heavily defended."

The remark rolled off of Bull like it didn't matter what Gatt thought, though Dorian could tell he cared a great deal. "Suppose we'll do the heavy lifting then. Just like old times." He laughed, but it was soon cut off and smothered at the first glimpse of movement through the trees.

"Vints up ahead!"

It was hardly much of a fight. The Venatori did not present much of a challenge and were quickly eliminated, chopped down by Bull's axe or incinerated with one of Dorian's spells.

"We're clear, Gatt."

"Right. Signaling the dreadnought." The elf lit the flare. The bright red spark soared through the grey, misty sky.

The Iron Bull kept his eye trained to the ridge that his boys had taken. "Chargers already sent theirs up," he said, and the pride in his voice was plain for all to hear. "See 'em down there?"

Gatt shook his head. "I knew you gave them the easier job."

Bull smiled, but didn't deny it. A ringing broke through the fog and Dorian watched as the dreadnought appeared out of the grey clouds, closing in fast on the small Tevinter ship. He had seen pictures of the fearsome dreadnoughts in his school books, but it didn't do them justice. They were long and powerful and armed to the teeth. A sound like thunder rippled through the air and Dorian watched as the smuggler's ship sank in a cloud of ash and fire. Bull laughed. "Nice one!" But just as quickly the happiness of victory was wiped from his face, a look of dread and worry swiftly overtaking it. At first, Dorian wasn't sure what had happened, but then he spotted them. Dozens of Venatori, marching toward the ridge the Chargers still held.

"They've still got time to fall back if you signal them now," Evelyn stated. The Iron Bull's hand drifted toward the horn he carried on his belt, squeezing its neck, but Gatt's voice stopped him from putting it to his lips.

"Your men need to hold that position, Bull."

"They do that, they're dead."

"And if they don't, the Venatori retake it and the dreadnought is dead," Gatt countered. He was right. If the Chargers didn't hold the Venatori off, the dreadnought would not have enough time to escape. But to Dorian that hardly mattered. Those Qunari trapped inside the dreadnought were strangers, he knew the Chargers, they were his friends.

Evelyn wavered, her hand pressed to her mouth and her face as white as a ghost. But then Gatt spoke again, and her expression grew hard with each word. It twisted something inside of Dorian. "You'd be throwing away an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari! You'd be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth. With all you've given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you've betrayed us already! I stood up for you, Hissrad! I told them you would _never_ become Tal-Vashoth!"

"They're my men." Bull's voice was dark and dangerous. But Dorian had no eyes for him, he was staring at Evelyn, at the play of emotions on her face.

"I know. But you need to do what's right, Hissrad... For this alliance, for the Qun."

There was hardly anything resembling the old Evelyn in her eyes now. She was too hard, too impassive. Something cold and fearful and wild strangled Dorian at the sight of it. She wouldn't do it. She couldn't. Evelyn couldn't say boo to a goose. She would not sacrifice the Chargers.

"We need to hold that hill at all costs." For a moment, Dorian couldn't understand what she had just said. It just wasn't possible.

Dorian turned to Bull. He just sighed and Dorian knew -- he _knew_ \-- the Iron Bull was going to stand there and let it happen. How? How could he do it? "But you can't!" A voice cried out, and Dorian realized that it was his own. He was ignored. No one looked at him, they're eyes remained trained to the slaughter in front of them.

Dorian twisted around, eyes squeezed shut, his hands flying to his ears to cover them, but it was too late. He could hear the fearful sound of crashing metal, a hoarse cry from Krem, saw his armor glinting in the misty light as it fell to the ground behind his lids. Then the Iron Bull walked away, his hand still clenching the horn at his hip.

* * *

The first time Dorian entered the tavern and saw Krem's empty chair sitting in the corner, his heart stopped. He had stayed away, at first; he didn't know if the Bull wanted his comfort, didn't know if _he_ could bear it, not when he knew Bull could have saved them. Dorian woke up every night now, shaking, the bodies in the study growing ever higher and Halward somewhere behind him, hidden in the shadows always just out sight, whispering, "It's for the best." The chess games with Cullen he had used to treasure no longer brought him any peace. It was obvious to see that the Commander was lost in thoughts of Evelyn, who had practically immurred herself inside her quarters since the disastrous battle.

Bull sat at his customary table, alone. Dorian remembered how Bull had always been able to laugh him out of his fears. He remembered the comfort of his broad grey chest and his strong arms. And the change he saw shocked him.

Although a half-smile tugged at his lips, his sharp eye held no amusement as it raked over everyone and everything. His mug held only water and he lifted it in salutations at Dorian's approach. There was a hard edge to him that kept Dorian at arm's length, as though Bull wished to have no words with him that went beneath the surface. Dorian wanted to apologize for staying away, take him upstairs and soothe his worries as he had once done for him. But there never seemed an opportune moment. Bull looked at him blankly that made no opportunity for him to speak. And apologies and comfort, once postponed, became harder and harder to make, and finally impossible. For all that had passed between them, as matters now stood, Dorian would as soon go to the arms of a complete stranger.

The door to his room was now closed. For the longest time, Dorian could not bring himself to knock. He dreaded what Bull might say. The stranger staring out from the Iron Bull's face had all of his same mannerisms, his sense of humor, but there was something distinctly off about it. It was as though Bull was playacting himself, while carefully cutting out everything that made him _him_ like a surgeon excising a tumor.

Eventually, Dorian had enough. After everything he had done for Dorian, he owed the Iron Bull. He would not let the man falter now. He could be what Bull needed, whether that was a port in the storm or a friend to lean on. Dorian gathered his courage -- helped along by copious amounts of stolen brandy -- and knocked on Bull's door long after everyone had crawled home for the night.

The door opened and Bull stood there, looking unsurprised. "Dorian."

Dorian pushed passed him before he could send him away and Bull quietly closed the door again. "You need something?" He asked. He didn't look at him.

"Well, you could bend me over this bed for starters," Dorian quipped. That pulled a laugh out him. Small, but genuine.

"Greedy and spoiled." Bull sounded almost wistful.

"Don't forget vain."

Bull sighed. "Dorian, I-"

Dorian didn't let him speak. He was too afraid. He reached up and pulled Bull down by the horns, kissing him, hoping it was enough to bring him back. Fear twisted his insides even as he pressed on; Dorian worried Bull would push him away, tell him that it was fun but now it was over. Instead, Bull wrapped one arm around his waist, the other bringing up his hand to cradle his head, and he was kissing him back. Bull was no longer a man, but a force of nature. The dam that had been holding him back broke and he was a wild thing, pushing Dorian into the bed, over him and in him. It was fast and hard and Dorian could hear Bull muttering against his skin as he worked his fingers inside of him. "The things you make me feel. Feel like I'm going crazy. Kadan." He sank his teeth into the column of brown flesh at his neck and Dorian howled, raked his nails down his biceps and spread his legs wider.

In the morning, Dorian awoke with his head against Bull's chest. He was nearly lulled back to sleep by the thick grey muscle moving gently up and down as he breathed. Finally, Dorian looked up and saw the Iron Bull was awake and watching him with that same searching, expectant expression he had seen before. He must have not found what he was looking for, because Bull's face shuttered closed and the mask quickly slipped back into place. With a sinking heart, Dorian feared that even after all that -- everything they shared together -- he had still manage to lose the Iron Bull.


	17. Chapter 17

The chateau sat just outside of Halamshiral. It was a sprawling, imposing complex, gilded and adorned with only the most beautiful -- and uncomfortable -- of furnishings. There was a sinfully large bed in the middle of the suite Dorian had been provided. Cherubs had been carved into the posts and the coverlets were made of the most sumptuous fabrics. This was a bed designed for anything _but_ sleep. Bull had helped him break it in, and although he said all the right words and did all the right things, Dorian could find only indifference in his gaze now. He held him, touched him, kissed him every night, but now there was no more whispered Qunlat against his lips, no more searching looks, or tender moments. He fucked like a Qunari, all physical, just an act to slake desire, no emotion between them. It was as though now that the Chargers were dead, all ties to the world outside of the Qun had been severed. Dorian hated it, but he could never bring himself to send Bull away either. He had his fill of emotionless one night stands while still in Tevinter, and now that he had tasted something more nothing less could satisfy him. He wanted Bull to look at him like he used to, he wanted Bull to tease and laugh. He hated this stranger who had taken his place. But he couldn't let him go either. Dorian was never very good at resisting temptation. 

Evelyn was racing around the chateau, jumping between her room and Vivienne's as she rushed to get ready for the ball. For Orlais, a ball signified many things. It was a show of power, a venue for peace talks, a place to forge alliances and break them. Empress Celene hoped that it might end the Orlesian civil war. Corypheus's agents planned to use it to assassinate the monarch and plunge Orlais into chaos. With Orlais gone, the rest of Thedas would soon fall. The question was: who was the assassin? Celene's rival Gaspard? The empress's former lover, the rebel elf Briala? The only thing they could do for the time being was play along and hope for the best. 

The Inquisitor had grown thin and pale. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hands shook as she tried to pin her red hair into place. "Darling, let me," Vivienne murmured softly, taking the pin from her limp fingers. They were silent as Vivienne tugged at the loose strands, her eyes darting to the mirror to watch Evelyn's face in the reflection. If Dorian didn't know better, he'd say the First Enchanter was worried about her. Once Vivienne was finished, she smiled. "There now. Don't you look pretty?" 

Dorian thought she looked like a ghost. 

"I'll look in on Cullen," said Dorian, in a way he hoped came off as casual. "He was whining about not being able to bring his sword last I spoke with him." 

As he spoke, Vivienne's eyes met his piercingly. _She always looks at me so oddly when I speak of Cullen_ , thought Dorian. 

It was a lovely afternoon, sunny but not too hot, bright but not glaring, and the warm breeze that rustled the trees chased some of the lingering chill from Dorian's bones as he crossed the courtyard to the room Cullen had been given. His heart still had a way of skipping a beat when he thought of Cullen, no matter that he belonged to Evelyn. And now that Bull treated him so coolly, the need to be near the Commander grew. His loneliness felt like a physical weight pressing down on him. The Chargers were dead, the Iron Bull a stranger, and Evelyn distant. Only Cullen remained the same. 

Cullen met him at the door and stood in the afternoon sunshine, his hair bright and on his lips a little smile. "Evelyn send you to check in on me?" He asked. "I'm a big boy now. I can dress myself." 

"Armor doesn't count," Dorian retorted, stepping inside. "Do you even know how to button a jacket properly? I mean, it isn't even covered in fur, how would a Fereldan know it was meant to be worn as clothing?" 

There was something about this spring day that brought memories of Magister Carloman's garden party rushing back to him, before that disastrous confession in the library. It struck him quite suddenly, this sense of déjà vu. It swelled in his chest until it positively ached with pleasure. He felt young and happy again, a little breathless and excited. He laughed and Cullen laughed too, thinking his mirth came from his teasing. 

"I'm only joking, you look very handsome," Dorian assured. He reached out and made Cullen spin for him, and the Commander obliged with a grin and a shake of his head. At the touch he realized that, without being conscious of it, he had hoped that just this thing would happen. Since discovering his relationship with Evelyn, Dorian had kept his distance. He had other diversions to fill in the ache, but now that those too had been ripped from him he wanted the old comfort of Cullen's friendship. However-- 

How odd that the feel of his shoulders beneath his hands did not excite him! Once his very nearness would have set him aflame. Now he felt a curious warm friendliness and contentment. No fever leaped from Cullen's hand to his. This puzzled him, made him a little disconcerted. This was still his Commander, the bright, shining knight that had caught him outside the gates of Haven when he fell, exhausted and tired. 

Dorian pulled away and sat down heavily on a chair as thoughts of Felix battered against his mind. No, it was never really about Cullen, was it? Cullen had offered him friendship without strings, companionship without judgment. It had reminded him so much of Felix and Dorian had clung to it like a man dying of thirst.

"What is it?" 

Dorian looked up to see Cullen hovering over him, one hand clasping his arm, care and worry etched across his face. "Nothing, it's stupid," Dorian answered, wiping at his eye before any tears could threaten to fall. "A memory got the better of me." 

A sad smile pulled at the edges of Cullen's mouth. "It's not stupid," he said. "I know what it's like to have a memory sneak up on you." 

Bull had said the same thing about Dorian's nightmare. _I know what it's like having nightmares._

"Did... Did Evelyn ever tell you about my friend Felix?" 

"A little." 

"After fleeing Redcliffe, he disappeared. I tried to find out what had happened to him, but there was no trace. It's as if he never existed." Sharp pain twisted in him, made his heart hurt suddenly, but since the day he had lain sick and desolate in the garden at Skyhold he had set his face against the past. No one could go forward with a load of aching memories. "I know he's dead now." 

"Are you alright?" 

"He was ill and thus on borrowed time anyhow. Besides, it was months ago." 

"That doesn't mean you can't regret his death." 

A warning bell rang in Dorian's mind: Don't look back! Don't look back! But he could not stop. The glittering suite faded and the years rolled aside and he was riding with Felix through the narrow city streets in a long-gone spring. He could hear his own careless laughter, see the sun glinting off of Felix's skin and note the proud easy grace with which he sat on his horse. There was the far-off yelping of wolves under the cool autumn moon of the Fields and the smell of chocolate at Wintersend. Old friends came trooping back, laughing as though they had not thrown their lot in with Corypheus and were as likely dead as Felix: the Sallustius twins with their long legs and chestnut hair and practical jokes, Beatrix Tycho as wild as a young horse, and Rilienus with his hot black eyes and languid grace. His father was there too and his mother, her face red with brandy and a whisper of a fragrance. Over it all rested a sense of security, a knowledge that tomorrow could only bring the same happiness today had brought. "I know. Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchens when I was working late in his father's study," Dorian whispered. "'Don't get into trouble on my behalf,' I'd tell him. 'I like trouble,' he'd say. Tevinter could use more mages like him, those who put the good of others above themselves. 

"Were the two of you...?" Cullen broke off, a blush creeping up his neck. 

Dorian couldn't help but smile. "Felix and I? What an odd question. No, there was nothing between us." Not from a lack of trying, though. "Just a fine young man, better than I. Maybe, if the world were a better place, he'd be here instead of me." 

Cullen frowned. "You make it sound like he was a better person than you." 

"What a mad thing to say. Few people are better than I," Dorian said, reaching deep within him for the old mask. But it did little to disguise his feelings and Cullen continued to stare at him, his gaze steady and sympathetic. "Very well. A better person, clearly. Not nearly as handsome." 

Dorian rose to his feet, Cullen's hand still on his arm. He must go. He could not stay and think of the old days that were never coming back. "I've come a long way since then," Dorian said, trying to steady his voice, trying to fight the constriction in his throat. "I had some fine notions, didn't I?" And then, with a rush. "Oh, Cullen, nothing has turned out as I expected." 

"It never does," he said. "Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect. We take what we get and are thankful it's no worse than it is." 

Dorian's heart was dull with pain, with weariness, as he thought of the long road he had come since those days. There rose up in his mind the memory of Dorian Pavus who loved parties and pretty clothes and who intended, some day, when he had the time, to be a great man like Halward. 

Without warning, tears started in his eyes and he buried his face in his hands to keep Cullen from seeing. The Commander said no words but took him gently in his arms. Dorian relaxed against him and his arms went around his body. The comfort of his hands helped dry his sudden tears. Ah, it was good to be in someone's arms, without passion, without tenseness, to be there as a loved friend. 

He heard the sound of feet outside but paid little heed. Dorian stood for a moment, listening to the slow beat of Cullen's heart. Then he wrenched himself from him, confusing Dorian by his suddenness. Dorian looked up into his face in surprise but he was not looking at him. He was looking over his shoulder at the door. 

Dorian turned and there stood Vivienne, her eyes blazing at the scene. 

How he got out of the room he never remembered. But he went instantly, swiftly, by Cullen's order, leaving the Commander and First Enchanter in grim converse. Cullen would explain everything. Surely, Vivienne did not actually believe that Cullen would cheat on Evelyn. Dorian knew she cared very little for him, but Cullen was good and upstanding. Vivienne could find no fault with him. 

Evelyn! Dorian went cold at the thought of her as he made his way back to his own suite. Evelyn would hear of this. Vivienne would tell her. The news would be all over the chateau by the time they needed to depart for the ball. When they returned to Skyhold, the soldiers would gather in corners and whisper discreetly and with malicious pleasure. Dorian Pavus tumbled from his high and mighty place! And the story would grow and grow. There was no way of stopping it. It wouldn't stop at the bare facts, that Cullen had been holding him in his arms while he cried. Before the week was out, people would be saying that he had seduced the Commander with blood magic. 

No one would believe it was innocent, save a precious few in Evelyn's inner circle. None among the common soldiers, or scouts, or servants. Dorian had outraged them too long to find a champion in them now. No, everybody would believe anything about him, though they might regret that so fine a man as Cullen Rutherford was mixed up in so dirty an affair. As usual they would cast blame upon the mage and shrug at the Templar's guilt. 

Oh, he could stand the cuts, the slights, the covert smiles, anything Skyhold might say, if he had to stand them-- but not Evelyn! Dorian did not know why he should mind Evelyn knowing, more than anyone else. What would be in her eyes when Vivienne told her that she had caught Dorian in Cullen's arms? Leave Cullen? What else could she do, with any dignity? And what will Cullen do then? He would die of shame and hate Dorian for bringing this on him. Suddenly Dorian stopped short as a deadly fear went through his heart. What of Bull? What would he do? 

Perhaps he wouldn't do anything. There was no jealousy under the Qun, just like there was no love under the Qun. He had never tried to hold Dorian down, never demanded any promises from him. But the thought of Bull shrugging, feeling nothing about the whole affair, was worse than the idea of him raging against Dorian. 

Dorian entered his room. He pulled off his uniform and lay down on the bed, his mind whirling round and round. If he could only lock his door and stay in this safe place forever and ever and never see anyone again. Perhaps Bull wouldn't find out tonight. He'd say he was ill and couldn't go to the ball. By morning he would have thought up some excuse to offer, some defense that might hold water. 

"I won't think of it now," he said desperately, burying his face in the pillow. "I won't think of it now. I'll think of it later when I can stand it." 

Time passed and finally he heard Bull coming up the steps. Dorian held himself tense as he reached the upper hall, gathered all his strength for a meeting but Bull passed Dorian's room and entered his own. He breathed easier. Bull hadn't heard. He could hear him moving about in his room for a long time, speaking occasionally to the servants. After a while, he knocked on his door and Dorian said, trying to control his voice: "Come in." 

"Are you ready?" He questioned, opening the door. It was dark and Dorian could not see his face. Nor could he make anything of his voice. Bull entered and closed the door. 

"I'm so sorry but I'm very ill." How odd that his voice sounded natural. Thank the Maker for the darkness! "Solas can provide support in my stead. You go, Bull, and give Evelyn my regrets." 

There was a long pause and he spoke drawlingly, biting in the dark. 

"I never pegged you for a coward." 

He knew! Dorian heard him fumble in the dark, strike a match and the room sprang into light. He walked over to the bed and looked down at him. He saw that Bull was in his uniform. 

"Get up," he said and there was nothing in his voice. "We are going to the ball. You will have to hurry." 

"Oh, Bull, I can't. You see--" 

"I can see. Get up." 

"Bull, did Vivienne dare--" 

"Vivienne dared. A very brave woman, Vivienne." 

"You didn't say anything against her for telling lies?" 

"I have a strange way of appreciating people who tell the truth. There's no time to argue now. Get up." 

He sat up, hugging his robe close to him, his eyes searching Bull's face. It was dark and impassive. 

"I won't go, Bull. I can't until this misunderstanding is cleared up." 

"If you don't show your face tonight, you'll never be able to show it as long as you live. I won't see you become a coward. You are going tonight, even if everyone, from Vivienne down, cuts you and Evelyn asks you to leave the Inquisition." 

"Bull, let me explain." 

"I don't want to hear. There isn't time. Put on your clothes." 

"She misunderstood, it wasn't like that. Cullen was just trying to comfort me, and Vivienne... she hates me. I can't go tonight." 

"You will go," he said. "If I have to drag you by the neck and plant my boot on your ever so charming bottom every step of the way." 

There was a cold glitter in his eyes as he pulled Dorian to his feet. He picked up the discarded uniform from the floor and tossed it at him. "Here. Put it on. And, no, I won't be leaving you to your privacy and have you lock the door and skulk here like a coward." 

"I'm not a coward," Dorian cried, stung out of his fear. "I--" 

"Well, you're certainly acting like one. Where's the Dorian who didn't care what anybody had to say about him? Who did what he wanted and told off anyone who dared try to censor him? If not for your own sake, you are going tonight for ours. Mine and Evelyn's. There's bound to be a fight and we could use your help. Put on your jacket, quick." 

Hastily, Dorian slipped off his robe and tugged on his uniform. Bull was rummaging around his creams and make-up. "Here, wear plenty of kohl. Nothing modest. Your flag must be nailed to the mast, for obviously you'd run it down if it wasn't." 

Bull was rushing through Dorian's usual routine, pushing him out the door and into a waiting carriage before Dorian could make his escape. The Winter Palace blazed lights from every room and they could hear the music far up the street. As they drew up towards the palace, the pleasant exciting sounds of people drinking and dancing floated out. It was packed with guests. They overflowed on verandas and balconies and gardens. Evelyn would already be there, discussing the events planned for tonight with Gaspard. Dorian shivered at the thought of her. What would she do? What would she say? He couldn't face her. 

As though reading his mind, Bull's hand closed upon his arm in the rough grip of a careless stranger. "I've never known you to be a coward. Where's your courage?" 

"Bull, please let me explain." 

"You have eternity in which to explain and only one night to be a martyr in the amphitheater." 

Dorian went up the walk somehow, the arm he was holding as hard and steady as granite, communicating to him some courage. By the Maker, he could face them and he would. What were they but a bunch of howling, clawing cats? He'd show them. He didn't care what they thought. Only Evelyn. 

They were inside and Dorian glanced at the other members of the Inquisition: Josephine, Leliana, Vivienne, Solas, Blackwall, Cassandra, Varric. Was everyone going to cut him? Well, let them do it! Dorian's chin went up and he smiled, daring them to say anything. 

Before he could speak, someone came through the press of people. There was an odd hush that caught Dorian's heart. Then through the lane came Evelyn on small feet that hurried to meet him, to speak to him before anyone else could. Her narrow shoulders were squared and her small jaw set indignantly and, for all her notice, there might have been no other person in the room but Dorian. She went to his side and slipped an arm through his. "How handsome you look," she said in a small, clear voice. "Care to dance with me? Cullen's already stepped on my feet four times this evening."


	18. Chapter 18

Safe in his room again, Dorian fell on the bed, careless of his uniform. Of all the people they had suspected, no one had pegged Grand Duchess Florianne as the would-be assassin. She had been Celene's right-hand. Not even the spymaster, Leliana, had suspected her. Bull had been right; Evelyn had needed him. He dreaded to think what might have happened to her if he hadn't been there, casting spell after spell against the Duchess and her Venatori agents. But it was over now. Florianne was dead, Celene had won her civil war, and the Inquisition now had the entire Orlesian Empire backing them.

Bull had sent him back to the chateau alone in the carriage when the fight was over and he thanked the Maker for the reprieve. He should go to sleep, push Bull and everything else out of his mind and rest, but, invariably his thoughts kept returning to the Qunari. Where was he? Probably out seducing some redhead tavern wench.

He wanted to see him, but he couldn't face him tonight. Tomorrow-- well, tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow the memory of this hideous night would not be driving him so fiercely that he shook. Tomorrow he would not be so haunted by the memory of Cullen's face. Tomorrow the sting of being saved by the indignant squaring of Evelyn's thin shoulders would not hurt so much. There had been love and outspoken trust in her voice as she crossed the glassy floor to slip her arm through Dorian's and face the curious, malicious crowd. How neatly Evelyn had scotched the scandal, keeping Dorian at her side all through the dreadful evening.

Oh, the ignominy of it all, to be sheltered behind Evelyn's skirts from those who hated him, who would have torn him to bits with their whispers. To be sheltered by Evelyn's blind trust, Evelyn of all people! 

Dorian shook as with a chill at the thought. He must have a drink, a number of drinks before he could lie down and hope to sleep. He brushed out the wrinkles in his uniform as best he could and went hastily out into the dark hall, his boots making a great clatter in the stillness. He was halfway down the stairs before he looked toward the closed door of the great dining room and saw a narrow line of light streaming under it. His heart stopped for a moment. Had Bull returned? Or was it one of the servants? If it was Bull, he would tiptoe back to bed without his brandy, much as he needed it. Then he wouldn't have to face him. 

He was leaning over to pluck off his boots, so he might hurry back in silence, when the dining room door swung open abruptly and Bull stood silhouetted against the dim candlelight behind him. He looked huge, larger than he had ever seen him, a terrifying faceless grey bulk that swayed slightly on its feet. 

"Pray join me, Magister Pavus," he said and his voice was a little thick. 

He was drunk and showing it and Dorian had never seen him show his liquor, no matter how much he drank. In fact, he hadn't seen him drink anything but water since the death of his Chargers. _I must never let him know I'm afraid to face him_ , he thought. Dorian went down the stairs with his head held high and his boots clacking noisily. 

Bull stood aside and bowed him through the door with a mockery that made Dorian wince. He saw that he had lost his jacket somewhere and his shirt was open down to his stomach. His eyepatch was slightly askew and his one good eye was bloodshot and narrow. One candle burned on the table, a tiny spark of light that threw monstrous shadows about the high-ceilinged room and made the massive sideboards and buffet look like still, crouching beasts. On the table stood the decanter with its cut-glass stopper out, surrounded by glasses. 

"Sit down," he said curtly, following him into the room. 

Now a new kind of fear crept into Dorian. Bull looked and talked and acted like a stranger. This was an ill-mannered Iron Bull that he had never seen before. Before, he had been playful and joking, then nonchalant and satirical after what happened on the Storm Coast, and now... For a long time, Dorian had thought nothing mattered very much to the Iron Bull, that he thought everything in his life, including him, a joke. But as Dorian faced him across the table, he knew with a sinking feeling in his stomach that at last something mattered to him, mattered very much. 

"There is no reason why you should not have your nightcap, even if I am ill bred enough to be here," Bull said. "Shall I pour it for you?" 

"I did not want a drink," Dorian said stiffly. "I heard a noise and came--" 

"You heard nothing. You wouldn't have come down if you'd thought I was back. You must need a drink badly. Take it." 

"I do not--" 

Bull picked up the decanter and sloshed a glassful, untidily. 

"Take it," he said, shoving it into his hand. "You're shaking all over. Oh, don't give yourself airs. I know you drink on the quiet and I know how much you drink. Do you think I give a damn if you like your brandy?" 

Dorian took the wet glass, silently cursing him. He read him like a book. He had always read him and he was the one man in the world from whom he would like to hide his real thoughts. He raised the glass and bolted the contents with one abrupt motion of his arm, wrist stiff, just as his mother had always taken her neat whiskey, bolted it before he thought how practiced it looked. 

"Sit down and we will have a pleasant domestic discussion of the elegant reception we have just attended." 

"You're drunk," Dorian said coldly. "And I'm going to bed." 

"I am very drunk and I intend to get still drunker before the evening's over. But you aren't going to bed-- not yet. Sit down." 

His voice still held a remnant of its wonted cool drawl but beneath the words Dorian could feel violence fighting its way to the surface, violence as cruel as the crack of a whip. As Bull leaned over him, he saw that his face was dark and flushed and his eye still had its frightening glitter. There was something in its depth he did not recognize, could not understand, something deeper than anger, stronger than pain, something driving him until his eye smoldered like a hot coal. He looked down at him for a long time, so long that Dorian's defiant gaze wavered and fell, and then Bull slumped in his chair and poured himself another drink. Dorian thought rapidly, trying to lay a line of defenses. But until Bull spoke, he would not know what to say for he did not know exactly what accusation he intended to make. 

Bull drank slowly, watching him over the glass as he tightened his nerves, trying to keep from trembling. For a time his face did not change its expression but finally the Iron Bull laughed, still keeping his eye on him, and Dorian shuddered at the sound. 

"It was an amusing comedy, this evening, wasn't it?" Bull mused, not waiting for Dorian to reply. "A pleasant comedy with no character missing. The village assembled to stone the adulterous man, the wronged woman stepping in with Andrastian spirit and casting the garments of her spotless reputation over it all. And the would-be lover--" 

"Please." 

"I don't please. Not tonight. It's too amusing. How does it feel, Vint, to have the woman you hate stand by you and cloak your sins for you?" 

"I never hated Eve--" 

"Strongly disliked then. Don't think I didn't notice that too. I notice a lot of things. Ben-Hassrath, remember? Right now you are wondering if she knows about your crush on Cullen -- wondering why she did this if she does know -- if she just did it to save her own face. And you are thinking she's a fool for doing it, even if it did save your hide but--" 

"I will not listen--" 

"Yes, you will listen. And I'll tell you this to ease your worry. The Inquisitor is a fool but not the kind you think. It is obvious that Vivienne had told her but she didn't believe it. Even if she had seen the pair of you rutting on her bedroom floor, she wouldn't believe. She loves you too much to ever conceive any dishonor in you."

"If you were not so drunk and insulting, I would explain everything," said Dorian, recovering some dignity. "But now--" 

"I am not interested in your explanations. I know the truth better than you do. What I find most amusing in this comedy is the long-suffering Cullen Rutherford, who has no idea you've been dressing him up in a dead man's clothes all this time and trying to force him to fit inside this Felix-shaped hole in your chest. Yes, I know nothing happened between you two." 

"Then why..." Dorian trailed of. Why what? Why this sudden emotion? Why the drinking? Dorian was almost afraid of the answer. 

Bull stood up and came around behind him, laughing darkly but not at Dorian. At himself. He leaned over him, putting his mouth by Dorian's ear. "Don't you suppose I know you've lain in my arms and pretended I was Felix? I can't compete with a ghost," he said and moved his hands in front of Dorian's face, flexing them before his eyes. "Observe my hands, Vint. I could tear you to pieces with them with no trouble whatsoever and I would do it if it would take Felix out of your mind. But it wouldn't. So I think I'll remove him from your thoughts forever, this way. I'll put my hands, like so, on each side of your head and I'll smash your skull between them like a walnut and that will blot him out." 

His large, grey hands were on his head, caressing. They spanned the width of his entire face, from chin to crown. He turned Dorian's head to look up at him and he saw the face of a stranger, a drunken drawling-voiced stranger. Dorian had never lacked animal courage and in the face of danger it flooded back hotly into his veins, stiffening his spine, narrowing his eyes. 

"Take your hands off me, you drunken Tal-Vashoth." 

Bull snatched his hands away like he had been burned and he crawled back into the chair, pouring himself another drink. "I have always admired your spirit, Vint. Never more than now when you are cornered." 

Dorian jumped up hotly, staring down at the strange Qunari who wore Bull's face. "I'm not cornered," he said cuttingly. "You'll never corner me, Iron Bull, or frighten me. You are nothing but a drunken beast who's lived by the Qun too long to know anything else. You'll never understand the feelings I have for Felix and you're jealous of that. Good night." 

He turned casually and started toward the door, but Bull was catching up to him. His large hands went round him roughly, under the shirt of his uniform, against his bare skin. "This is one night when there aren't going to be any ghosts in my bed." 

Bull turned him swiftly in his arms, bent over and kissed him with a savagery and a completeness that wiped out everything from Dorian's mind but the dark into which he was sinking and the lips on him. Bull was shaking, as though he stood in a strong wind, and his lips, traveling from his mouth downward to where the jacket had been pulled open, and fell on his flesh. He was darkness and Dorian was darkness and there had never been anything before this time, only darkness and his lips on him. Dorian opened his mouth. _Katoh_. It was right there, on the tip of his tongue. He could say it and the Iron Bull would stop. He would. He must. But Dorian didn't say it. And then his mouth was on him again, his arms too strong, lips too bruising. Somehow, Dorian's hands were clinging to his shoulders and his lips were trembling beneath his. Bull swung him off his feet and into his arms and started up the stairs. Dorian's head was crushed against his chest and he heard the hard hammering of his heart beneath his ears. Bull was a mad stranger carrying him up into the darkness. He felt himself being pressed into bed, and there was a hand around his wrists, the other wrapped around his hip, holding him immobile, hard enough to leave bruises. Dorian couldn't move, all he could do was hold on and take everything that Bull gave him. "Look at me," he growled. Look at _me_. No one else. Desperation colored each of his actions. Like he was trying to prove himself to Dorian. Each press of his fingers, every bite and kiss transformed into words he couldn't say and Dorian couldn't read. 

When he awoke the next morning, Bull was gone and had it not been for the soreness and the rumpled pillow beside him, Dorian would have thought the happenings of the night before a wild preposterous dream. He had fought beside the Bull for a year, slept with him, eaten with him, quarreled with him, had sex with him-- and yet, he still did not know him. The man who had carried him up the dark stairs was a stranger of whose existence Dorian had not imagined. He remembered after Francesco died when, in a fit of self-loathing, he had commanded Bull to _fuck him like a savage_. And that was exactly what he had done last night. 

And Dorian had enjoyed it. Or, maybe what he had enjoyed was the raw emotion seeping out from the Iron Bull and knowing that it was _him_ who caused that. He had known that Bull had at least liked him as a friend. Before the Chargers had died, anyway. Afterwards, he had been so distant and untouchable. Dorian had been sure he no longer cared for him, that their continued relations were now nothing more than a burden for the man. But last night... Bull loved him. Dorian was sure of it. He was not altogether certain how he felt about it, but he couldn't deny the nervous tingling and exciting pleasure building up within him at the thought of meeting again, face to face in the sober light of day. _I'm as nervous as a schoolboy,_ he thought. _And about Bull!_ And, at the idea, he fell to giggling foolishly. 

But Bull was nowhere to be found. Dorian searched through the chateau, dodging harried servants as they prepared the horses for the return trip to Skyhold. The other members of Evelyn's inner circle were distant but courteous when he approached them about Bull's whereabouts. It was obvious that they still felt incredibly awkward about what had occurred the day before, but they answered honestly when they said they hadn't seen him. The only person he hadn't asked was Vivienne; he had no plans of speaking to her... ever again, really, if he could help it. But as Dorian hunted for Bull, so had Vivienne hunted for Dorian. He saw her round a corner, her heels clacking with determination against the polished floor. Dorian lifted his head and looked down at her from the end of his nose, which was quite a feat considering her ridiculous heels gave her several inches over him. Vivienne huffed in irritation. "Stop posturing, you overblown peacock, I've come to apologize." 

"Seen the error of your ways, have you?" 

"Hardly. Evelyn's a sweet girl, but a terrible judge of character. I, on the other hand, see you for what you are. I've watched you flirt with our dear Commander, and I know you don't care for Evelyn one bit, but Maker help her she cares about _you_. Why, I haven't the slightest idea, but she does. I'm not going to be the one to hurt her. I'll admit that I might have jumped to conclusions yesterday, if it means easing her mind. And I can trust Cullen not to stray, at the very least. But I don't trust you and I don't trust your intentions." 

Dorian's jaw ached from grinding his teeth. "Well, it's a good thing your opinion hardly matters, isn't it?" 

Vivienne arched one perfectly sculptured brow and sauntered off, head held high and shoulders thrown back like she owned the chateau and everything in it. Dorian went back to his room. Bull would show up soon. He had to. Otherwise, he would miss the caravan. Dorian tried to swallow down the thick worry that twisted his insides as he pushed open his door. 

The Iron Bull was sitting at the end of his bed. 

He was clean and sober, but his eye was bloodshot and his face puffy from drink. Relief flooded him, but it was soon replaced with hot anger. How could he just sit there after what happened last night and then... to just disappear! "Where-- where have you been?" 

"It doesn't matter." 

"Like the Void it doesn't!" 

"Dorian..." 

Dorian snapped his mouth shut at the sound of misery and guilt lacing that one word. Bull looked up at him and his eye seemed shiny to the mage. "I'm sorry. If you want to have me arrested, I'll go quietly. I shouldn't have... What I did was wrong." 

"Which part?" Dorian snapped. "The part where you threatened to bash in my skull or the part where you carried me upstairs and had your way with me?" 

Bull flinched and looked down at his hands. 

Then, more gently, Dorian said, "I didn't say _katoh_." 

"I'm not sure I would have listened if you had." 

The words hung thickly between them. 

Bull shook his head. "You always did like to call me an animal, a savage. Last night I proved you right. I thought the Qun would protect me, keep me from falling into madness, but ever since my boys died..." He looked down at his hands. "I'm the Iron Bull. A tool. A weapon. I forgot that." 

"You're a person too!" Dorian insisted, but it seemed to be the wrong thing to say because Bull looked as though his heart had been ripped out. 

"I don't feel like one." 

"What... what are you saying?" 

Bull shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I'll stay on with the Inquisition until this thing with Corypheus ends, one way or another. Then I'll go back to Par Vollen, to the re-educators. In the meantime, I'll keep away. I won't bother you anymore." 

Dorian reached out and grasped his arm as he tried to slip past. "I don't want you to leave me alone." 

The Qunari didn't look at him as he shook himself free. "I told you I'd keep you safe. And that's what I'm going to do." Then he was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

"Dorian, I don't want any explanation from you and I won't listen to one," said Evelyn firmly as she gently laid a small hand across Dorian's tortured lips and stilled his words. "You insult yourself and Cullen and me by even thinking there could be need of explanations between us. I'm ashamed of you for thinking idle gossip could ever sway me. Do you think I'd believe that you and my Cullen-- why, the idea! Do you think I've forgotten all the wonderful, unselfish things you've done for us-- everything from saving my life to trekking across the Frostback Mountains to warn us of Corypheus? I don't want to hear a word out of you, Dorian Pavus. Not a word." 

Evelyn sat facing him, in a low chair, her feet firmly planted on an ottoman so high that her knees stuck up like a child's. She held a line of tatting in her hands and she was driving the shining needle back and forth as furiously as though handling a rapier in a duel. 

Had Dorian been possessed of such an anger, he would have been snapping and roaring like a dragon. But only by the flashing needle and the hard look marring her delicate brows did Evelyn indicate that she was inwardly seething. "I've gotten mighty tired of hearing people criticize you," she said. "And this is the last straw and I'm going to do something about it. I don't care what happens or what anyone thinks. They chose me to be their Inquisitor, they should trust my judgment. All this has happened because people are jealous of you, because they can't imagine a Tevinter mage could be so smart and successful without resorting to blood magic and slaves. You've succeeded where lots of people have failed. But that doesn't give them the right to say that you and Cullen-- Goodness!" 

The soft vehemence of this last sentence would have been profanity of no uncertain meaning on anyone else's lips. Dorian had to cover his mouth to keep her from seeing his smile. Even now Evelyn couldn't bring herself to let loose a proper swear. 

"And for them to come to me with their concocted story-- I cannot believe Vivienne! But then she told me herself that she has been a part of the Circle too long to see past your homeland. At least she's apologized. If she hadn't, why I... I don't know what I would have done, but it wouldn't have been good!" 

"And Cullen?" Dorian asked, almost afraid of the answer. 

"Why, he's as angry as I am! To think that people could warp something as innocent as a friendly hug!" Evelyn shook her head, looking suddenly old. "I've had to make a lot of hard decisions, but this isn't one of them. I _know_ this is right, supporting you, and there is nothing anybody could say that will change my mind."

True to her word, she set out on a campaign to improve Dorian's standing amongst the common people. Evelyn stuck by Dorian's side like a cocklebur. She made him go with her to greet visiting dignitaries and accompany her when out in the field. She insisted that Dorian get out of the library in the afternoons, little though he wished to expose himself to the eager curious gaze of Skyhold's residents. Evelyn went with him on his forced walkabouts through the castle. She took him to the tavern and the Main Hall and Vivienne's salon. Evelyn, shy and awkward Evelyn, with a fierce "love-me-love-my-dog" look on her face, made conversation with everyone they met. Her companionship put any rumors to rest, though Dorian believed that few people based their views of him on his personal integrity. "I wouldn't put much beyond him," was the universal attitude. But would a woman of Evelyn's high principles champion the cause of a philandering blood mage, especially a man guilty of cheating with her own lover? No, indeed! 

But there was still a seed of doubt. If Dorian wasn't guilty, where was the Iron Bull? Everyone knew of their relations. Bull had talked of it -- loudly -- often enough. Why wasn't he here at his lover's side, helping to end the vicious rumors? He was always out doing missions for the Inquisition, or helping maintain the Qunari alliance by aiding that elf, Gatt. No one had seen Dorian and the Iron Bull together since their return from Orlais. 

Now that his first rage at having been abandoned had passed, Dorian began to miss him and he missed him more and more as days went by with only the barest news of him. Out of the welter of rapture and anger and heartbreak and hurt pride that he had left, depression emerged to sit upon Dorian's shoulder like a carrion crow. He missed him, missed his light flippant touch in anecdotes that made Dorian shout with laughter, his sardonic grin that reduced troubles to their proper proportions, missed even his teasing that stung Dorian to angry retort. Most of all Dorian missed having him to tell things to. Bull was so satisfactory in that respect. He never had to fear that Bull would sit in judgment of him. 

The rumors were eventually laid to rest, once and for all, but it was not due to either Evelyn or the Bull's intervention, but rather Corypheus's. 

Dorian had been palling around the library when the Breach was re-opened. At first he hadn't realized what had happened, had assumed the distant rumbling was only thunder. But the screams and rough pounding of hooves outside in the courtyard drew his attention and he peeked out the window. His heart stuttered when he saw the green tear winding its way through the sky. His mind went immediately to Bull. Where was he? Was he safe? Was he far away from Haven? He heard Evelyn bound up the stairs, taking two at a time, and he turned to see her haggard, frightened face. He couldn't think about Bull now. Evelyn needed him. He would support her, in whatever she might need, just as she had done for him. They were... friends. 

The memorial the Inquisition had built for those who had lost their lives at Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes was destroyed and in the middle of the wreckage stood the Blighted Magister, the Elder One. "Tell me, where is your Maker now?" He commanded. "Call him. Call down his wrath upon me. You cannot, for he does not exist. I am Corypheus. I shall deliver you from this lie in which you linger. Bow before your new god and be spared!" 

Evelyn pushed through the ruins, racing to protect her soldiers from the Magister's wrath. "I knew you would come!" He taunted. 

"It ends here, Corypheus!" She screamed. 

"And so it shall." 

The world split itself apart, flinging itself to the wind. Dorian grasped hold to keep from falling as Corypheus transformed the Temple to suit his desires, as a spirit transforms the Fade around it. Evelyn was on his right and Vivienne to his left. He shared a look between the First Enchanter and whatever issues they might have had were gone. No more petty squabbles between them, their only goal was survival. 

Corypheus was completely unlike any enemy they had faced before. He seemed almost unstoppable, wielding ancient magics long forgotten by the rest of the world. Dorian's muscles burned with every turn of his staff; it felt like he had been fighting for hours. He wished the Iron Bull was here. The fear would not be so choking, crawling through his intestines like tendrils, if it was him watching his back instead of Vivienne. But Dorian was glad he was gone. Bull would have undoubtedly thrown himself headfirst into the fight and gotten himself killed. This way, Dorian was sure he would live. 

Perhaps it was thoughts of Bull that had distracted him. Perhaps Dorian was just clumsy. Or maybe it was completely unavoidable and nothing Dorian could have done would have stopped it. Fire blazed from his staff, but Corypheus was fast. Suddenly he was no longer in front of Dorian, but behind him, and the mage tried to swing his staff around to strike him across the face. Instead, it fell limply from his fingers as Corypheus's claw-like hands dug deep into his stomach, piercing through the delicate flesh. He remembered the pain was unbearable those first few seconds, but then it slowly ebbed away as the blood poured from the gaping hole. He felt cold and sleepy and he remembered wandering away from the battle before the darkness rushed up to greet him. 

It was the first time Dorian had ever been gravely injured. He was forlorn and frightened, weak and pain racked and bewildered. He did not know when the battle had ended, or who had won, or how he had made it back to his bed in Skyhold. Consciousness was an elusive thing that slipped through his fingers every time he thought he had grabbed hold of it. He knew he was sicker than they dared tell him, feebly realized that he might die. His insides burned when he breathed, his bruised skin ached and his whole body was given over to demons who plucked at him with hot pinchers and sawed on him with dull knives and left him, for short intervals, so drained of strength that he could not regain a grip on himself before they returned. If he was to die, then at least he would die doing what was right. But did the Maker have to torture him? Could He not take him and be done with it? He was too tired to remember why he should be frightened of dying. Death was in the room and he had no strength to confront it, did not want to fight back if it meant the pain would end. 

He wanted someone to stand by him and hold his hand and fight off death for him. He wanted Bull. But he was not there and Dorian could not bring himself to ask for him. 

His last memory of him was how he looked when he told Dorian that he would be returning to Par Vollen, his grey face puffy and full of self-loathing. After that there was nothing but darkness and pain and a room full of buzzing voices and someone sobbing and Evelyn's brusque orders and feet that hurried on stairs and tiptoed through halls. And then like a blinding ray of light, the knowledge of death and fear hounding him made him suddenly try to scream a name and the scream was only a whisper. 

But that forlorn whisper brought instant response from somewhere in the darkness beside the bed and the soft voice of the one he called made answer in lullaby tones: "I'm here. I've been right here all the time." 

Death and fear receded gently as Evelyn took his hand and laid it quietly against her cool cheek. Dorian tried to turn to see her face and could not. He had to get to Haven. The Inquisitor was there. He had to warn her about the Elder One and his army of mages. He must hurry, hurry. But Felix was sick and he couldn't hurry. He must stay with him until he got better because Felix needed his strength. The Iron Bull was hurting so bad-- there were hot pinchers poking at him and dull knives and recurrent waves of pain. He must hold Bull's hand. 

The night was dark and then light and sometimes Dorian was sick and sometimes it was Felix who cried out, but through it all Evelyn was there and her hands were cool and she did not make futile anxious gestures or sob, she simply worked. Continuously and methodically. Whenever Dorian opened his eyes, he said "Evie?" And the voice answered. And usually he started to whisper: "Bull-- I want Bull," and then remembered, as from a dream, that Bull didn't want him. Dorian wanted him and he didn't want Dorian. 

Once he said, "Evie?" But it was Vivienne's voice that answered: "It's me, darling," and put a cold rag on his forehead and he cried fretfully: "Evie-- Evelyn," over and over but for a long time Evelyn did not come. For Evelyn was sitting on the edge of Bull's bed and Bull, drunk and sobbing, was sprawled on the floor, crying, his head pressed face-first in her lap. 

Every time she had come out of Dorian's room she had seen him, hovering in the background, watching the door across the hall. He never asked questions when he saw her, but she felt compelled to give him some news before he made his way dejectedly toward the tavern and his own quarters: "I'm sorry, he's worse," or "No, he hasn't asked for you yet. You see, he's delirious," or "You mustn't give up hope, Bull. Let me fix you some hot coffee and something to eat. You'll make yourself ill." 

Her heart always ached with pity for him, although she was almost too tired and sleepy to feel anything. How could people say such mean things about the two of them -- say that they were unfaithful and hateful to one another -- when she could see him getting thin before her eyes, see the torment in his face? Tired as she was, she always tried to be kinder than usual when she gave bulletins from the sick room. He looked so like a damned soul waiting judgment-- so like a child in a suddenly hostile world. And Evelyn never could resist holding out her arms in comfort for a child in need. 

But when, at last, she went joyfully to his room to tell him that Dorian was better, she was unprepared for what she found. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table by the bed and the room reeked with the odor. He looked at her, his eye bright and glazed, and his jaw muscles trembled despite his efforts to set his teeth. 

"He's dead?" 

"Oh, no. He's much better." 

The Iron Bull crumbled in on himself, putting his head in his hands. She saw his wide shoulders shake as with a nervous chill and, as she watched him pitingly, her pity changed to shock for she saw that he was crying. Evelyn had never seen the Iron Bull cry, not even when his Chargers were killed in battle. He had watched them as they fell one by one, and not a single tear had fallen.

It frightened her, the desperate choking sound he made. But when he raised his head and she caught one glimpse of his eye, she stepped swiftly into the room, closed the door softly behind her and went to him. When she put a soft hand on his shoulder, his arms went suddenly around her skirts. Before she knew how it happened she was sitting on the bed and he was on the floor, his head buried face down in her lap and his arms and hands clutching her in a frantic clasp that hurt her. 

She stroked his head gently and said: "There, he's going to get well." 

At her words, his grip tightened and he began speaking rapidly, hoarsely, babbling as though to a grave which would never give up its secrets, the truth rising rapidly to Hissrad's lips, baring himself mercilessly to Evelyn who was at first utterly uncomprehending, utterly maternal. He talked brokenly, tugging at the folds of her skirt. Sometimes his words were blurred, muffled, sometimes they came far too clearly to her ears, harsh, bitter words of confession and abasement, secret things that brought the hot blood of modesty to her cheeks and made her grateful for his bowed head. 

She patted his head like she had used to do for her young apprentices when they wailed for their parents and said: "Hush! Bull! You must not tell me these things. You are not yourself." But his voice went on in a wild torrent of outpouring and he held to her dress as though it were his hope of life. 

He accused himself of deeds she did not understand; he mumbled of a night spent with Dorian while in Orlais and then he shook with violence as he cried: "I've killed them, I've killed him. You don't understand. I said I would make sure he was safe and--" 

"You are beside yourself! You couldn't have prevented this! It was Corypheus who had hurt him, not you. You are not responsible for the actions of another." 

"I did nothing. I did nothing to stop my boys from dying. I did nothing to stop Dorian from dying. And-and that night, I was drunk and insane and I wanted to hurt him-- because he had hurt me. I wanted to -- and I did -- but he didn’t want me. He's never wanted me. He's only ever wanted Felix. I tried-- I tried so hard and--" 

"Oh, please!" 

"I have no control, I'm no better than a Tal-Vashoth. It would be best if the Tamassrans fed me qamek and turned me into a mindless laborer." 

Evelyn suddenly went white and her eyes widened with horror as she looked down at the grey tormented head writhing in her lap. This was madness! She did not understand the Qun, but surely it would not require _this_ from the Iron Bull. She knew him, nothing he had done could be so terrible. It was only that he was drunk and sick from strain and his mind was running dizzily, like a man delirious, babbling wild fantasies. Men couldn't stand strains as well as women. The Iron Bull was drunk and sick. And sick children must be humored. 

"There! There!" She said crooningly. "Hush, now. I understand." 

He raised his head violently and looked up at her with his bloodshot eye, fiercely throwing off her hands. 

"No, you don't understand! You can't understand! You don't believe me but it's all true. Do you know why I did it? I was mad, crazy with jealousy. He never cared for me and I thought I could make him care. But he never cared. He doesn't love me. He never has. He loves Felix." 

He trailed off into a mumble, his eye dropping away from hers, his lid batting rapidly as he fought back to sanity. Then he collapsed again. 

"He's going to get well," said Evelyn soothingly, beginning to stroke his head again. "Don't cry! He's going to get well."


	20. Chapter 20

When Dorian awoke one misty spring morning, he had the distinct memory of badgering Evelyn the whole night previously, demanding to know who had won the fight with Corypheus. She answered with all the patience of a Chantry sister, assuring him over and over that they had won, despite that it should have been obvious to him due to the simple fact that they were all still alive. Then he'd go back to sleep, only to wake in an hour and repeat the whole process over again. Evelyn smiled down at him from her seat beside his bed, knitting in hand as always. There were dark circles underneath her eyes and she looked more haggard and tired than Dorian had ever seen her, but she was happy -- radiantly so -- and for the first time since he met her Dorian thought she looked rather pretty. "Good morning!" She chirped. 

Dorian rubbed at the beard that had taken over his face. "How long was I sick?" 

"Long enough for me to knit three sweaters and several hats. Cullen offered to shave you while you were out. He thought you might like to look a bit more like yourself when you woke up, but I told him no." She laughed. "I would hate for you to have to kill him. When Cullen said that to me I honestly wondered if he had ever looked in a mirror, or if he actually thought he does a fine job controlling that patchy scruff." 

"Some men look good with a bit of scruff." 

"Yes, he does," Evelyn said fondly. "Here, I'll help you sit up." 

There was a tightness across his stomach, like his skin was stretched too thin over his body. It ached, but did not pain him unbearably. Mostly, he just felt very weak. Dorian lifted the covers to look at his naked torso and saw a lurid, jagged scar running across his belly. It was red and spoke of violence, but mostly healed. 

"I kept you drugged with a prodigious amount of elfroot," Evelyn explained as she fluffed up his pillows around his shoulders. "It was... bad. Very bad. I didn't want you waking up until I was sure the pain could be managed and you wouldn't die of shock. You were delirious for the longest time, both from the elfroot and the fever of infection." 

"I must have been splendid company," Dorian commented and took from Evelyn's hands the bowl of water, razor, and his own special blend of shaving cream that he made from alkali, animal fat, and scented oils. 

While Dorian set about making himself presentable, Evelyn held up the hand mirror for him. "Oh, yes. My favorite was when you were absolutely convinced there were monkeys jumping all over you." 

Dorian laughed and nearly nicked himself. "How is everyone?" He asked carefully, hoping that she didn't detect the nervousness in his voice. 

"They are all doing very well. Vivienne has been named the new Divine. I'm so proud of her. I think she'll do good work. To think-- the Divine a mage! Oh, well, I suppose that isn't so shocking for you, is it? But it is a very big deal here in the South. Solas has disappeared. I'm not surprised. He was an apostate and he made his views on the Circle very clear. I'm not worried about him; Solas is more than capable of taking care of himself, and he prefers it that way." Then her voice grew very quiet. "Bull is preparing to return to Par Vollen. The Ben-Hassrath are awaiting his report." 

Dorian's heart skipped a beat. "But he hasn't left yet?" 

"No." The word was loaded, full of meaning. 

"Am I well enough to walk?" 

Evelyn's gaze narrowed. "For short intervals around your room. If you wish, I will send for the Bull or anyone else you want. You are _not_ to go traipsing about Skyhold, up and down stairs, or anything else that might cause your intestines to fall out." 

Dorian winced. "Lovely imagery." 

"I've found that graphic descriptions are useful in preventing stubborn patients from leaving their beds." 

"Can I have a bit of privacy at least? I have a need to use the chamberpot." 

Evelyn laughed. "Dorian, I've been nursing you for several weeks now. I've helped you use the chamberpot, tossed out its contents when it got full, bathed you, I've even had my hands elbow-deep inside your torso. I assure you the human body is no mystery to me. But," she said and stood up, making her way to the door. "I'll leave you to your modesty." 

To think of _Evelyn_ of all people critiquing his modesty! Dorian folded his arms with a huff that made Evelyn laugh. She paused at the door and looked back at him and said, "Be kind to Bull. He loves you so." And then she was gone. 

Dorian set about getting dressed. He needed to talk to Bull and he needed to talk to him now. He wasn't as sure as Evelyn that the man would come to his room if asked, so Dorian would go to him instead. His legs shook as he wobbled down the back stairwell to the battlements, away from the Main Hall where he was sure Evelyn was lurking. Dorian stepped outside, wiping the droplets of rain from his eyes as the grey skies threatened to unleash the full weight of a storm upon Skyhold. The world was wrapped in a thick mist, a faintly chill mist that crept into Dorian's bones. It was as if the whole world were enveloped in an unmoving blanket of smoke. He passed one of the serving girls along the way, her arms laden with laundry. One look at him and she squealed. Actually _squealed_. Dropped her laundry and everything. Dorian knew he looked a bit of a fright. He was thin and gaunt, his face bare of any make-up, the robes he wore were wrinkled and old. Still, her reaction was a bit overdramatic, and that was certainly saying something if it was coming from him. Dorian was completely taken off guard when she said, rather breathlessly, "You were at the battle with the Evil One, weren't you?" 

Before he had a chance to answer, her arms were around his middle in a hug. She only let loose at his grunt of pain. "Sorry, sorry!" She cried, before gathering up her laundry and fleeing. She wasn't the only one. Many of the people he came across shook his hand in thanks and talked of his good qualities. Just last month they would have crossed the street to avoid him. Even the blacksmith shrugged and said, "I guess you lot can't all be bad" and he had _spat_ when they first met. This was quite the development. Dorian had to admit he liked being thought of as "the good Tevinter." But did it have to take him nearly dying for them to see past his homeland? 

The tavern was just a few feet away. It was as bright and noisy as ever and Dorian's heart leaped at the sight. Bull's grey, rugged face came to his mind, flashing teeth and teasing grin. A trembling came over Dorian. _I love him_ , he thought and he accepted the truth with little wonder, as a child accepting a gift. _I don't know how long I've loved him, but it's true. If I hadn't been so obsessed with chasing ghosts, I'd have realized it long ago. I've never been able to see the world at all, because I was too busy looking back at Felix._

He stood straight and stepped inside that little tavern. He had thought that he had lost everything in the world, everything that made life desirable. His home, his family, his status, and Felix. But he still had Bull, he had him and he hadn't even known he had him. _I'll tell him everything_ , he thought. _He'll understand. He's always understood. I'll tell him what a fool I've been and how much I love him and I'll make it up to him._

The tavern exploded into cheers when he entered. Several people offered to buy him a drink, but Dorian waved them off with a smile. He needed to see Bull. He hobbled up the stairs as fast as he could and saw, to his delight, that the Bull's door was slightly ajar. He quietly peeked inside and saw the Bull sitting on his bed, his shoulders hunched. There was a knapsack beside his feet. Dorian pulled open the door, wanting to run to him, but when the Bull looked up at him something in his gazed stopped Dorian dead on the threshold, stilled the words on his lips. 

He looked at him steadily, his eye heavy with fatigue and there was no light left in it. His face held no surprise at seeing him there. He was sunken in on himself, his pants wrinkling untidily against his thickening waist, every line of him proclaiming the ruin of a fine body and the coarsening of a strong face. As Dorian had wasted in the sick room, so had the Iron Bull, depression and drink his injury. He looked at Dorian as he stood there, looked quietly, almost kindly, in a way that frightened the mage. 

"I knew you'd come," he said. "I didn't want to leave until you had." 

Dorian advanced hesitantly toward him, uncertainty taking form in his mind at this new expression on Bull's face. He sat quietly next to him, unsure of what to say. 

"I suppose you must be glad that I won't be here to bother you anymore." 

"No!" He cried, grasping hold of his arm. "You're all wrong! Terribly wrong. I don't want you to leave-- I--" He stopped for he could find no other words. 

Bull put his hand under Dorian's chin, quietly turned his face up to the light and looked for an intense moment into his eyes. Dorian looked up at him, his heart in his eyes, wanting to speak but could marshal no words because he was trying to find in the Qunari's face some answering emotions. Surely he must know how Dorian felt now. Bull dropped his chin and, getting up, went to pick up his knapsack. 

Dorian stood up as well, his hands twisting. "You are wrong," he began again, finding his words. "Bull, this morning, when I knew, I walked every step of the way here to tell you. Bull, I--" 

"You are tired," he said, not looking at him. "You'd better go back to bed." 

"But I must tell you!" 

"Dorian," he said heavily. "I don't want to hear... anything." 

"But you don't know what I'm going to say!" 

"It's written plainly on your face. And it's no use to talk about it." 

Dorian drew a sharp surprised breath. Of course, he had always read him easily. Heretofore he had resented it but now, after the first shock at his own transparency had passed, his heart rose with gladness and relief. He knew, he understood and Dorian's task was miraculously made easy. But he was not going to take the easy way out, he would not allow the bitter memory of his last confession in the library of Magister Carloman's home ruin this. He was going to say it. "Bull, I'm going to tell you everything," he said. "I've been so wrong, such a stupid fool--" 

"Dorian, don't do this. Don't say these things about yourself. I couldn't bear it. Don't humble yourself for me. I don't deserve it. Please, spare me this last pain." 

He straightened up abruptly. Spare him this last pain? What did he mean by 'this last'? He couldn't possibly go back to Par Vollen now that he knew the truth. This was supposed to be their first, their beginning. 

"But I will tell you," he began rapidly, as if fearing his hand upon his mouth, silencing him. "Bull, I love you. You must believe me!" 

"Oh, I believe you," Bull replied. "Once I would have given up the Qun to hear you say that. But, now, it doesn't matter." 

"Doesn't matter? What are you talking about? Of course it matters! Bull, you do care, don't you? You must care. Evelyn said you did." 

"Well, she was right, but, Dorian, did it ever occur to you that love simply isn't enough?" 

"But it is!" 

Dorian matched his gaze that he knew so well -- and knew so little -- and listened to his quiet voice as he tried to explain. "Did it ever occur to you that I loved you as much as a Qunari can love anyone? Loved you before I even got you? I knew you didn't love me back. I could see the adoration on your face when you looked at Felix that night we fled Redcliffe. But, fool that I was, I thought I could make you care. Laugh, if you like, but I wanted to keep you for myself. I wanted to keep you safe and give you a free reign in anything that would make you happy. You had such a struggle, Dorian. Friendships are easy under the Qun, but love is dangerous. Nothing -- _nobody_ \-- is meant to come first in your heart, nothing but the Qun. That is your first and true loyalty, everything else is second. I'd forgotten that when I formed the Chargers. When they died... The pain made me feel like I was going crazy. I knew I needed to pull back, before I did something I would regret. But there you were, insisting on taking up every thought in my brain and pushing out everything else. And then it happened. I lost control. That night when I carried you upstairs -- I thought -- I hoped -- I was afraid to face you the next morning." 

"But Bull, I didn't ask you to stop. I wanted you and I thought you didn't want me." 

"Oh, well," he said. "It seems we've been at cross purposes, doesn't it? I suppose, as a Ben-Hassrath, I should have recognized that, but I've always been a bit willfully blind when it comes to you. A terrible Ben-Hassrath, and a terrible Qunari. But that's sort of the point. I've lost sense of who I am." 

"Bull," Dorian said coming forward, hoping he would drop his knapsack and draw his arms around his waist. "That doesn't mean you have to go to Par Vollen. You can stay -- with me -- and find who you are. Together." 

"Thank you, no," said Bull, as if he were refusing a piece of bread. "I can't risk hurting you or anyone else again." 

"Bull, don't say such things! What can I say to make you understand? I'm sorry, I--" 

"Oh, Kadan," he said. "You are such a child. You think by saying 'I'm sorry' and 'I love you' all the errors and hurts of the past can be remedied." It was obvious that the Iron Bull was not going to take him in his arms. He looked at Dorian in an almost kindly way, speculation in his eyes. "How old are you? You never would tell me." 

"Thirty," he answered dully. 

"You really are a child. You're young enough, you'll find someone new. Someone better." 

"What are you going to do?" 

"I'm going to Par Vollen to give the Ben-Hassrath my report and from there, probably Seheron. I never told you much about Seheron, did I? It was hell. I lost a lot of good friends there. I was glad, at first, when I was reassigned. Now... now I wonder if I was ever meant to leave it." 

"You're frightening me. You don't sound like yourself." 

"How do you know what I sound like? The Iron Bull was always meant to be a cover. He wasn't supposed to be real." 

He turned to leave, his hand on the door. Dorian grasped him by the arm, forced the Iron Bull to look at him. "But, Amatus, I love you!" 

The Qunari looked down at him, saw the same stubborn, bullheaded look that Dorian often got when someone told him he couldn't do something and was bound and determined to go ahead with it anyway. The Iron Bull's words had been utterly lost on him; all he heard was that Bull loved him back and everything else was an obstacle to overcome. So, Hissrad drew a short breath and said lightly but softly: 

"Frankly, Dorian, I don't give a damn." 

* * *

Dorian silently watched him go from the window, stomping through the rain and mist, disappearing into the thick grey clouds. There was a merciful dullness in his mind now, a dullness that he knew from experience would soon give way to sharp pain. _I won't think of it now_ , he thought grimly, summoning up the old charm that had seen him through so many hard times. _I'll think of it... when I can stand it. I'll-- why, I'll go back home to Tevinter._ His spirits lifted faintly at the thought. 

He thought of Tevinter and it was as if a gentle, cool hand was stealing over his heart. He could see the gleaming white villa welcoming through green, spring leaves, feel the quiet hush of the Valarian Fields at twilight. He saw the winding red streets of Minrathous and the long, sandy beaches of Qarinus. He felt vaguely comforted, strengthened by the picture, and some of his hurt and frantic regret was pushed from the top of his mind. He stood for a moment remembering small things, the avenue of lemon trees, the banks of jessamine bushes, the fluttering curtains of his childhood bedroom. 

He was born of Tevinter. With a spirit that refused to know defeat, even when it stared him in the face, Dorian raised his chin. He will go back to Tevinter and he will make it better. He will campaign for the abolition of slavery, for friendship with their Southern neighbors, for peace with the Qunari... and he would get the Iron Bull back. He knew he could, if he tried. 

"I'll think of it all when I return to Tevinter. I'll be able to stand it then."

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gone with the Wind_ by Margaret Mitchell (1900-1949) was published in 1936 and features the groundbreaking Scarlett O'Hara, a heroine who was quite unlike the Jane Eyres and the Jo Marches of previous generations. If _Gone with the Wind_ had contained itself to Scarlett and Rhett's doomed romance, then I might be more willing to recommend it to readers. However, it is very racist, not only in its use of stereotypes, but also because of the bigoted diatribes that litter the book. It is understandably difficult for many people to read, and I, for one, am incredibly reluctant to suggest it to readers because of this. However, if you are interested in the original story, the film _Gone with the Wind_ took out much of the overt racism of the original book. This is not to say it isn't problem-free. It is still racist, the stereotypes are awful, but the film does attempt to sanitize the story. I don't usually suggest skipping over the book entirely and going straight to the film, but in this instance it would be best for many readers. If you are interested in checking out either, you can find them here- the [Novel](https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/m/mitchell/margaret/gone/) and the [Film](http://www.amazon.com/Gone-Wind-Clark-Gable/dp/B002W7IH0Y).


End file.
